presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 

MRS  ETHEL  ROGERS 


THREE   PLAYS   BY   BRIEUX 


THREE  PLAYS  BY  BRIEUX 
MEMBER  OF  THE  FRENCH 
ACADEMY  WITH  PREFACE 
BY  BERNARD  SHAW  ENGLISH 
VERSIONS  BY  MBS  BERNARD 
SHAW,  ST  JOHN  HANKIN  AND 
JOHN  POLLOCK 


BRENTANO'S  •  NEW    YORK 
MCMXIII 


• 


Copyright,  1907,  by  G.  Bernard  Shaw 
Copyright,  1910,  by  O.  Bernard  Shaw 
Copyright,  1911,  by  Charlotte  Frances  Shaw 


Fifth  Edition 


THE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

Preface  by  Bernard  Shaw  .         .         .         .  vii 

Maternity.     Translated  by  Mrs.  Bernard  Shaw  .  1 

The  Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont.     Trans- 
lated by  St.  John  Hank  in    ....         77 

Damaged  Goods.     Translated  by  John  Pollock  .       185 

Maternity  (new   version).     Translated  by  John 

Pollock  255 


PREFACE 

BY  BERNARD  SHAW 

From  Moliere  to  Brieux 

AFTER  the  death  of  Ibsen,  Brieux  confronted  Europe  as 
the  most  important  dramatist  west  of  Russia.  In  that 
kind  of  comedy  which  is  so  true  to  life  that  we  have  to 
call  it  tragi-comedy,  and  which  is  not  only  an  enter- 
tainment but  a  history  and  a  criticism  of  contemporary 
morals,  he  is  incomparably  the  greatest  writer  France 
has  produced  since  Moliere.  The  French  critics  who 
take  it  for  granted  that  no  contemporary  of  theirs  could 
possibly  be  greater  than  Beaumarchais  are  really  too 
modest.  They  have  never  read  Beaumarchais,  and  there- 
fore do  not  know  how  very  little  of  him  there  is  to  read, 
and  how,  out  of  the  two  variations  he  wrote  on  his  once 
famous  theme,  the  second  is  only  a  petition  in  artistic 
and  intellectual  bankruptcy.  Had  the  French  theatre 
been  capable  of  offering  a  field  to  Balzac,  my  proposition 
might  have  to  be  modified.  But  as  it  was  no  more  able 
to  do  that  than  the  English  theatre  was  to  enlist  the 
genius  of  Dickens,  I  may  say  confidently  that  in  that 
great  comedy  which  Balzac  called  "  the  comedy  of  hu- 
manity," to  be  played  for  the  amusement  of  the  gods 
rather  than  for  that  of  the  French  public,  there  is  no 
summit  in  the  barren  plain  that  stretches  from  Mount 
Moliere  to  our  own  times  until  we  reach  Brieux. 


viii  Preface 

How  the  Nineteenth  Century  found  itself 
out 

It  is  reserved  for  some  great  critic  to  give  us  a  study 
of  the  psychology  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Those  of 
us  who  as  adults  saw  it  face  to  face  in  that  last  moiety 
of  its  days  when  one  fierce  hand  after  another  —  Marx's, 
Zola's,  Ibsen's,  Strindberg's,  Turgenief 's,  Tolstoy's  — 
stripped  its  masks  off  and  revealed  it  as,  on  the  whole, 
perhaps  the  most  villainous  page  of  recorded  human  his- 
tory, can  also  recall  the  strange  confidence  with  which  it 
regarded  itself  as  the  very  summit  of  civilization,  and 
talked  of  the  past  as  a  cruel  gloom  that  had  been  dis- 
pelled for  ever  by  the  railway  and  the  electric  telegraph. 
But  centuries,  like  men,  begin  to  find  themselves  out  in 
middle  age.  The  youthful  conceit  of  the  nineteenth  had 
a  splendid  exponent  in  Macaulay,  and,  for  a  time,  a  glo- 
riously jolly  one  during  the  nonage  of  Dickens.  There 
was  certainly  nothing  morbid  in  the  air  then:  Dickens 
and  Macaulay  are  as  free  from  morbidity  as  Dumas 
pere  and  Guizot.  Even  Stendhal  and  Prosper  Merimee, 
though  by  no  means  burgess  optimists,  are  quite  sane. 
When  you  come  to  Zola  and  Maupassant,  Flaubert  and 
the  Goncourts,  to  Ibsen  and  Strindberg,  to  Aubrey 
Beardsley  and  George  Moore,  to  D'Annunzio  and  Eche- 
garay,  you  are  in  a  new  and  morbid  atmosphere.  French 
literature  up  to  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  was 
still  all  of  one  piece  with  Rabelais,  Montaigne  and 
Moliere.  Zola  breaks  that  tradition  completely:  he  is  as 
different  as  Karl  Marx  from  Turgot  or  Darwin  from 
Cuvier. 

In  this  new  phase  we  see  the  bourgeoisie,  after  a  cen- 
tury and  a  half  of  complacent  vaunting  of  its  own  prob- 
ity and  modest  happiness  (begun  by  Daniel  Defoe  in 
Robinson  Crusoe's  praises  of  "  the  middle  station  of 


Preface  ix 

life  "),  suddenly  turning  bitterly  on  itself  with  accusa- 
tions of  hideous  sexual  and  commercial  corruption. 
Thackeray's  campaign  against  snobbery  and  Dickens's 
against  hypocrisy  were  directed  against  the  vices  of  re- 
spectable men ;  but  now  even  the  respectability  was  pas- 
sionately denied:  the  bourgeois  was  depicted  as  a  thief, 
a  tyrant,  a  sweater,  a  selfish  voluptuary  whose  marriages 
were  simple  legalizations  of  unbridled  licentiousness. 
Sexual  irregularities  began  to  be  attributed  to  the  sym- 
pathetic characters  in  fiction  not  as  the  blackest  spots  in 
their  portraits,  but  positively  as  redeeming  humanities 
in  them. 

Jack  the  Ripper 

I  am  by  no  means  going  here  either  to  revive  the  old 
outcry  against  this  school  of  iconoclasts  and  disillu- 
sioners,  or  to  join  the  new  reaction  against  it.  It  told 
the  world  many  truths :  it  brought  romance  back  to  its 
senses.  Its  very  repudiation  of  the  graces  and  enchant- 
ments of  fine  art  was  necessary;  for  the  artistic  morbid- 
ezza  of  Byron  and  Victor  Hugo  was  too  imaginative  to 
allow  the  Victorian  bourgeoisie  to  accept  them  as  chron- 
iclers of  real  facts  and  real  people.  The  justification  of 
Zola's  comparative  coarseness  is  that  his  work  could  not 
have  been  done  in  any  other  way.  If  Zola  had  had  a 
sense  of  humor,  or  a  great  artist's  delight  in  playing  with 
his  ideas,  his  materials,  and  his  readers,  he  would  have 
become  either  as  unreadable  to  the  very  people  he  came 
to  wake  up  as  Anatole  France  is,  or  as  incredible  as 
Victor  Hugo  was.  He  would  also  have  incurred  the  mis- 
trust and  hatred  of  the  majority  of  Frenchmen,  who, 
like  the  majority  of  men  of  all  nations,  are  not  merely 
incapable  of  fine  art,  but  resent  it  furiously.  A  wit  is  to 
them  a  man  who  is  laughing  at  them:  an  artist  is  a  man 
of  loose  character  who  lives  by  telling  lying  stories  and 


x  Preface 

pandering  to  the  voluptuous  passions.  What  they  like  to 
read  is  the  police  intelligence,  especially  the  murder 
cases  and  divorce  cases.  The  invented  murders  and  di- 
vorces of  the  novelists  and  playwrights  do  not  satisfy 
them,  because  they  cannot  believe  in  them ;  and  belief 
that  the  horror  or  scandal  actually  occurred,  that  real 
people  are  shedding  real  blood  and  real  tears,  is  indis- 
pensable to  their  enjoyment.  To  produce  this  belief  by 
works  of  fiction,  the  writer  must  disguise  and  even  dis- 
card the  arts  of  the  man  of  letters  and  assume  the  style 
of  the  descriptive  reporter  of  the  criminal  courts.  As  an 
example  of  how  to  cater  for  such  readers,  we  may  take 
Zola's  Bete  Humaine.  It  is  in  all  its  essentials  a  simple 
and  touching  story,  like  Prevost's  Manon  Lescaut.  But 
into  it  Zola  has  violently  thrust  the  greatest  police  sensa- 
tion of  the  nineteenth  century:  the  episode  of  Jack  the 
Ripper.  Jack's  hideous  neurosis  is  no  more  a  part  of 
human  nature  than  Ceesar's  epilepsy  or  Gladstone's  miss- 
ing finger.  One  is  tempted  to  accuse  Zola  of  having  bor- 
rowed it  from  the  newspapers  to  please  his  customers 
juSt  as  Shakespear  used  to  borrow  stories  of  murder  and 
jealousy  from  the  tales  and  chronicles  of  his  time,  and 
heap  them  on  the  head  of  convivial  humorists  like  lago 
and  Richard  III,  or  gentle  poets  like  Macbeth  and  Ham- 
let. Without  such  allurements,  Shakespear  could  not 
have  lived  by  his  plays.  And  if  he  had  been  rich  enough 
to  disregard  this  consideration,  he  would  still  have  had  to 
provide  sensation  enough  to  induce  people  to  listen  to 
what  he  was  inspired  to  say.  It  is  only  the  man  who  has 
no  message  who  is  too  fastidious  to  beat  the  drum  at  the 
door  of  his  booth. 


Preface  xi 


Rise  of  the  Scientific  Spirit 

Still,  the  Shakesperean  murders  were  romantic  mur- 
ders: the  Zolaesque  ones  were  police  reports.  The  old 
mad  heroines,  the  Ophelias  and  Lucies  of  Lammermoor, 
were  rhapsodists  with  flowers  in  their  hands:  the  new 
ones  were  clinical  studies  of  mental  disease.  The  new 
note  was  as  conspicuous  in  the  sensational  chapters  as  in 
the  dull  chapters,  of  which  there  were  many.  This  was 
the  punishment  of  the  middle  class  for  hypocrisy.  It  had 
carried  the  conspiracy  of  silence  which  we  call  decorum 
to  such  lengths  that  when  young  men  discovered  the  sup- 
pressed truths,  they  felt  bound  to  shout  them  in  the 
streets.  I  well  remember  how  when  I  was  a  youth  in  my 
teens  I  happened  to  obtain  access  to  the  papers  of  an 
Irish  crown  solicitor  through  a  colleague  who  had  some 
clerical  work  to  do  upon  them.  The  county  concerned 
was  not  one  of  the  crimeless  counties:  there  was  a  large 
camp  in  it;  and  the  soldier  of  that  day  was  not  the  re- 
spectable, rather  pious,  and  very  low-spirited  youth  who 
now  makes  the  King's  uniform  what  the  curate's  black 
coat  was  then.  There  were  not  only  cases  which  were 
tried  and  not  reported:  there  were  cases  which  could  not 
even  be  tried,  the  offenders  having  secured  impunity  by 
pushing  their  follies  to  lengths  too  grotesque  to  be  bear- 
able even  in  a  criminal  court  —  also  because  of  the  silly 
ferocity  of  the  law,  which  punished  the  negligible  inde- 
cencies of  drunken  young  soldiers  as  atrocious  crimes. 
The  effect  produced  by  these  revelations  on  my  raw 
youth  was  a  sense  of  heavy  responsibility  for  conniving 
at  their  concealment.  I  felt  that  if  camp  and  barrack 
life  involved  these  things,  they  ought  to  be  known.  I 
had  been  caught  by  the  great  wave  of  scientific  enthusi- 
asm which  was  then  passing  over  Europe  as  a  result  of 
the  discovery  of  Natural  Selection  by  Darwin,  and  of 


xii  Preface 

the  blow  it  dealt  to  the  vulgar  Bible  worship  and  re- 
demption mongering  which  had  hitherto  passed  among 
us  for  religion.  I  wanted  to  get  at  the  facts.  I  was  pre- 
pared for  the  facts  being  unflattering:  had  I  not  already 
faced  the  fact  that  instead  of  being  a  fallen  angel  I  was 
first  cousin  to  a  monkey?  Long  afterwards,  when  I  was 
a  well-known  writer,  I  said  that  what  we  wanted  as  the 
basis  of  our  plays  and  novels  was  not  romance,  but  a 
really  scientific  natural  history.  Scientific  natural  his- 
tory is  not  compatible  with  taboo;  and  as  everything 
connected  with  sex  was  tabooed,  I  felt  the  need  for  men- 
tioning the  forbidden  subjects,  not  only  because  of  their 
own  importance,  but  for  the  sake  of  destroying  taboo 
by  giving  it  the  most  violent  possible  shocks.  The  same 
impulse  is  unmistakably  active  in  Zola  and  his  contem- 
poraries. He  also  wanted,  not  works  of  literary  art,  but 
stories  he  could  believe  in  as  records  of  things  that  really 
happen.  He  imposed  Jack  the  Ripper  on  his  idyll  of 
the  railwayman's  wife  to  make  it  scientific.  To  all 
artists  and  Platonists  he  made  it  thereby  very  unreal; 
for  to  the  Platonist  all  accidents  are  unreal  and  negli- 
gible ;  but  to  the  people  he  wanted  to  get  at  —  the  anti- 
artistic  people  —  he  made  it  readable. 

The  scientific  spirit  was  unintelligible  to  the  Philis- 
tines and  repulsive  to  the  dilettanti,  who  said  to  Zola: 
"  If  you  must  tell  us  stories  about  agricultural  laborers, 
why  tell  us  dirty  ones  ?  "  But  Zola  did  not  want,  like 
the  old  romancers,  to  tell  a  story.  He  wanted  to  tell 
the  world  the  scientific  truth  about  itself.  His  view  was 
that  if  you  were  going  to  legislate  for  agricultural  la- 
borers, or  deal  with  them  or  their  business  in  any  way, 
you  had  better  know  what  they  are  really  like;  and  in 
supplying  you  with  the  necessary  information  he  did  not 
tell  you  what  you  already  knew,  which  included  pretty 
nearly  all  that  could  be  decorously  mentioned,  but  what 
you  did  riot  know,  which  was  that  part  of  the  truth  that 


Preface  xiii 

was  tabooed.  For  the  same  reason,  when  he  found  a 
generation  whose  literary  notions  of  Parisian  cocotterie 
were  founded  on  Marguerite  Gauthier,  he  felt  it  to  be  a 
duty  to  show  them  Nana.  And  it  was  a  very  necessary 
thing  to  do.  If  some  Irish  writer  of  the  seventies  had 
got  himself  banished  from  all  decent  society,  and  perhaps 
convicted  of  obscene  libel,  by  writing  a  novel  showing  the 
side  of  camp  life  that  was  never  mentioned  except  in  the 
papers  of  the  Crown  Solicitor,  we  should  be  nearer  to  a 
rational  military  system  than  we  are  to-day. 

Zolaism  as  a  Superstition 

It  is,  unfortunately,  much  easier  to  throw  the  forces 
of  art  into  a  reaction  than  to  recall  them  when  the  re- 
action has  gone  far  enough.  A  case  which  came  under 
my  own  notice  years  ago  illustrates  the  difficulty.  The 
wife  of  an  eminent  surgeon  had  some  talent  for  drawing. 
Her  husband  wrote  a  treatise  on  cancer;  and  she  drew 
the  illustrations.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  her 
gift  for  a  serious  purpose;  and  she  worked  hard  enough 
at  it  to  acquire  considerable  skill  in  depicting  cancerous 
proliferation.  The  book  being  finished  and  published, 
she  resumed  her  ordinary  practice  of  sketching  for  pleas- 
ure. But  all  her  work  now  had  an  uncanny  look.  When 
she  drew  a  landscape,  it  was  like  a  cancer  that  acciden- 
tally looked  like  a  landscape.  She  had  acquired  a  can- 
cerous technique;  and  she  could  not  get  rid  of  it. 

This  happens  as  easily  in  literature  as  in  the  other 
arts.  The  men  who  trained  themselves  as  writers  by 
dragging  the  unmentionable  to  light,  presently  found 
that  they  could  do  that  so  much  better  than  anything  else 
that  they  gave  up  dealing  with  the  other  subjects.  Even 
their  quite  mentionable  episodes  had  an  unmentionable 
air.  Their  imitators  assumed  that  unmentionability  was 
an  end  in  itself  —  that  to  be  decent  was  to  be  out  of  the 


xiv  Preface 

movement.  Zola  and  Ibsen  could  not,  of  course,  be  con- 
fined to  mere  reaction  against  taboo.  Ibsen  was  to  the 
last  fascinating  and  full  of  a  strange  moving  beauty; 
and  Zola  often  broke  into  sentimental  romance.  But 
neither  Ibsen  nor  Zola,  after  they  once  took  in  hand  the 
work  of  unmasking  the  idols  of  the  bourgeoisie,  ever 
again  wrote  a  happy  or  pleasant  play  or  novel.  Ibsen's 
suicides  and  catastrophes  at  last  produced  the  cry  of 
"  People  don't  do  such  things,"  which  he  ridiculed 
through  Judge  Brack  in  Hedda  Gabler.  This  was  easy 
enough:  Brack  was  so  far  wrong  that  people  do  do  such 
things  occasionally.  But  on  the  whole  Brack  was  right. 
The  tragedy  of  Hedda  in  real  life  is  not  that  she  commits 
suicide  but  that  she  continues  to  live.  If  such  acts  of 
violent  rebellion  as  those  of  Hedda  and  Nora  and  Re- 
becca and  the  rest  were  the  inevitable  or  even  the  prob- 
able consequences  of  their  unfitness  to  be  wives  and 
mothers,  or  of  their  contracting  repugnant  marriages  to 
avoid  being  left  on  the  shelf,  social  reform  would  be  very 
rapid;  and  we  should  hear  less  nonsense  as  to  women 
like  Nora  and  Hedda  being  mere  figments  of  Ibsen's 
imagination.  Our  real  difficulty  is  the  almost  boundless 
docility  and  submission  to  social  convention  which  is 
characteristic  of  the  human  race.  What  balks  the  social 
reformer  everywhere  is  that  the  victims  of  social  evils  do 
not  complain,  and  even  strongly  resent  being  treated  as 
victims.  The  mo're  a  dog  suffers  from  being  chained  the 
more  dangerous  it  is  to  release  him:  he  bites  savagely 
at  the  hand  that  dares  touch  his  collar.  Our  Rougon- 
Macquart  families  are  usually  enormously  proud  of 
themselves;  and  though  they  have  to  put  up  with  their 
share  of  drunkards  and  madmen,  they  do  not  proliferate 
into  Jack-the-Rippers.  Nothing  that  is  admittedly  and 
unmistakably  horrible  matters  very  much,  because  it 
frightens  people  into  seeking  a  remedy:  the  serious 
horrors  are  those  which  seem  entirely  respectable  and 


Preface  xv 

normal  to  respectable  and  normal  men.  Now  the  for- 
mula of  tragedy  had  come  down  to  the  nineteenth  century 
from  days  in  which  this  was  not  recognized,  and  when 
life  was  so  thoroughly  accepted  as  a  divine  institution 
that  in  order  to  make  it  seem  tragic,  something  dreadful 
had  to  happen  and  somebody  had  to  die.  But  the  tragedy 
of  modern  life  is  that  nothing  happens,  and  that  the 
resultant  dulness  does  not  kill.  Maupassant's  Une  Vie 
is  infinitely  more  tragic  than  the  death  of  Juliet. 

In  Ibsen's  works  we  find  the  old  traditions  and  the 
new  conditions  struggling  in  the  same  play,  like  a  gud- 
geon half  swallowed  by  a  pike.  Almost  all  the  sorrow 
and  the  weariness  which  makes  his  plays  so  poignant  are 
the  sorrow  and  weariness  of  the  mean  dull  life  in  which 
nothing  happens ;  but  none  the  less  he  provides  a  final 
catastrophe  of  the  approved  fifth-act-blank-verse  type. 
Hedwig  and  Hedda  shoot  themselves:  Rosmer  and  Re- 
becca throw  themselves  into  the  mill-race:  Solness  and 
Rubeck  are  dashed  to  pieces:  Borkman  dies  of  acute 
stage  tragedy  without  discoverable  lesions.  I  will  not 
again  say,  as  I  have  said  before,  that  these  catastrophes 
are  forced,  because  a  fortunate  performance  often  makes 
them  seem  inevitable;  but  I  do  submit  that  the  omission 
of  them  would  leave  the  play  sadder  and  more  convincing. 

The  Passing  of  the  Tragic  Catastrophe  and 
the  Happy  Ending 

Not  only  is  the  tradition  of  the  catastrophe  unsuitable 
to  modern  studies  of  life:  the  tradition  of  an  ending, 
happy  or  the  reverse,  is  equally  unworkable.  The  mo- 
ment the  dramatist  gives  up  accidents  and  catastrophes, 
and  takes  "  slices  of  life  "  as  his  material,  he  finds  him- 
self committed  to  plays  that  have  no  endings.  The  cur- 
tain no  longer  comes  down  on  a  hero  slain  or  married:  it 
comes  down  when  the  audience  has  seen  enough  of  the 


xvi  Preface 

life  presented  to  it  to  draw  the  moral,  and  must  either 
leave  the  theatre  or  miss  its  last  train. 

The  man  who  faced  France  with  a  drama  fulfilling  all 
these  conditions  was  Brieux.  He  was  as  scientific,  as 
conscientious,  as  unflinching  as  Zola  without  being  in  the 
least  morbid.  He  was  no  more  dependent  on  horrors 
than  Moliere,  and  as  sane  in  his  temper.  He  threw  over 
the  traditional  forced  catastrophe  uncompromisingly. 
You  do  not  go  away  from  a  Brieux  play  with  the  feeling 
that  the  affair  is  finished  or  the  problem  solved  for  you 
by  the  dramatist.  Still  less  do  you  go  away  in  "  that 
happy,  easy,  ironically  indulgent  frame  of  mind  that  is 
the  true  test  of  comedy,"  as  Mr.  Walkley  put  it  in  The 
Times  of  the  1st  October,  1909.  You  come  away  with 
a  very  disquieting  sense  that  you  are  involved  in  the 
affair,  and  must  find  the  way  out  of  it  for  yourself  and 
everybody  else  if  civilization  is  to  be  tolerable  to  your 
sense  of  honor. 

The  Difference  between  Brieux  and  Moliere 
or  Shakespear 

Brieux's  task  is  thus  larger  than  Moliere's.  Moliere 
destroyed  the  prestige  of  those  conspiracies  against 
society  which  we  call  the  professions,  and  which  thrive 
by  the  exploitation  of  idolatry.  He  unmasked  the  doc- 
tor, the  philosopher,  the  fencing  master,  the  priest.  He 
ridiculed  their  dupes:  the  hypochondriac,  the  acade- 
mician, the  devotee,  the  gentleman  in  search  of  accom- 
plishments. He  exposed  the  snob :  he  showed  the  gentle- 
man as  the  butt  and  creature  of  his  valet,  emphasizing 
thus  the  inevitable  relation  between  the  man  who  lives 
by  unearned  money  and  the  man  who  lives  by  weight  of 
service.  Beyond  bringing  this  latter  point  up  to  a  later 
date  Beaumarchais  did  nothing.  But  Moliere  never  in- 
dicted society.  Burke  said  that  you  cannot  bring  an  in- 


Preface  xvii 

dictment  against  a  nation;  yet  within  a  generation  from 
that  utterance  men  began  to  draw  indictments  against 
whole  epochs,  especially  against  the  capitalistic  epoch. 
It  is  true  that  Moliere,  like  Shakespear,  indicted  human 
nature,  which  would  seem  to  be  a  broader  attack;  but 
such  attacks  only  make  thoughtful  men  melancholy  and 
hopeless,  and  practical  men  cynical  or  murderous.  Le 
Misanthrope,  which  seems  to  me,  as  a  foreigner  perhaps, 
to  be  Moliere's  dullest  and  worst  play,  is  like  Hamlet  in 
two  respects.  The  first,  which  is  that  it  would  have  been 
much  better  if  it  had  been  written  in  prose,  is  merely 
technical  and  need  not  detain  us.  The  second  is  that  the 
author  does  not  clearly  know  what  he  is  driving  at.  Le 
Festin  de  Pierre,  Moliere's  best  philosophic  play,  is  as 
brilliant  and  arresting  as  Le  Misanthrope  is  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other;  but  here  again  there  is  no  positive 
side:  the  statue  is  a  hollow  creature  with  nothing  to 
say  for  himself;  and  Don  Juan  makes  no  attempt  to 
take  advantage  of  his  weakness.  The  reason  why 
Shakespear  and  Moliere  are  always  well  spoken  of  and 
recommended  to  the  young  is  that  their  quarrel  is  really 
a  quarrel  with  God  for  not  making  men  better.  If  they 
had  quarrelled  with  a  specified  class  of  persons  with  in- 
comes of  four  figures  for  not  doing  their  work  better,  or 
for  doing  no  work  at  all,  they  would  be  denounced  as 
seditious,  impious,  and  profligate  corruptors  of  morality. 
Brieux  wastes  neither  ink  nor  indignation  on  Provi- 
dence. The  idle  despair  that  shakes  its  fist  impotently 
at  the  skies,  uttering  sublime  blasphemies,  such  as 

'  As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods: 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport,' 

does  not  amuse  Brieux.  His  fisticuffs  are  not  aimed 
heavenward:  they  fall  on  human  noses  for  the  good  of 
human  souls.  When  he  sees  human  nature  in  conflict 
with  a  political  abuse  he  does  not  blame  human  nature, 


xviii  Preface 

knowing  that  such  blame  is  the  favorite  trick  of  those 
who  wish  to  perpetuate  the  abuse  without  being  able 
to  defend  it.  He  does  not  even  blame  the  abuse:  he  ex- 
poses it,  and  then  leaves  human  nature  to  tackle  it  with 
its  eyes  open.  And  his  method  of  exposure  is  the  dra- 
matic method.  He  is  a  born  dramatist,  differing  from 
the  ordinary  dramatists  only  in  that  he  has  a  large  mind 
and  a  scientific  habit  of  using  it.  As  a  dramatist  he  must 
take  for  his  theme  a  conflict  of  some  sort.  As  a  drama- 
tist of  large  mind  he  cannot  be  satisfied  with  the  trum- 
pery conflicts  of  the  Divorce  Court  and  the  Criminal 
Court:  of  the  husband  with  the  seducer,  of  the  police- 
man with  the  murderer.  Having  the  scientific  conscience 
in  a  higher  degree  than  Zola  (he  has  a  better  head),  he 
cannot  be  interested  in  imaginary  conflicts  which  he  him- 
self would  have  to  invent  like  a  child  at  play.  The  con- 
flict which  inspires  his  dramatic  genius  must  be  a  big  one 
and  a  real  one.  To  ask  an  audience  to  spend  three  hours 
hanging  on  the  question  of  which  particular  man  some 
particular  woman  shall  mate  with  does  not  strike  him  as 
a  reasonable  proceeding;  and  if  the  audience  does  not 
agree  with  him,  why,  it  can  go  to  some  fashionable 
dramatist  of  the  boulevard  who  does  agree  with  it. 


Brieux  and  the  Boulevard 

This  involves  Brieux  in  furious  conflict  with  the  boule- 
vard. Up  to  quite  recent  times  it  was  impossible  for  an 
Englishman  to  mention  Brieux  to  a  Parisian  as  the  only 
French  playwright  who  really  counted  in  Europe,  with- 
out being  met  with  astonished  assurances  that  Brieux  is 
not  a  playwright  at  all ;  that  his  plays  are  not  plays ;  that 
he  is  not  (in  Sarcey's  sense  of  the  phrase)  "  du  theatre  " ; 
that  he  is  a  mere  pamphleteer  without  even  literary  style. 
And  when  you  expressed  your  natural  gratification  at 
learning  that  the  general  body  of  Parisian  dramatists 


Preface  xix 

were  so  highly  gifted  that  Brieux  counted  for  nothing 
in  Paris  —  when  you  respectfully  asked  for  the  names  of 
a  few  of  the  most  prominent  of  the  geniuses  who  had 
eclipsed  him,  you  were  given  three  or  four  of  which  you 
had  never  heard,  and  one  or  two  known  to  you  as  those  of 
cynically  commercial  manipulators  of  the  menage  a  trois, 
the  innocent  wife  discovered  at  the  villain's  rooms  at 
midnight  (to  beg  him  to  spare  the  virtue  of  a  sister,  the 
character  of  a  son,  or  the.  life  of  a  father),  the  compro- 
mising letter,  the  duel,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  claptraps 
out  of  which  dramatic  playthings  can  be  manufactured 
for  the  amusement  of  grown-up  children.  Not  until  the 
Academic  Francaise  elected  Brieux  did  it  occur  to  the 
boulevardiers  that  the  enormous  difference  between  him 
and  their  pet  authors  was  a  difference  in  which  the  supe- 
riority lay  with  Brieux. 

The  Pedantry  of  Paris 

Indeed  it  is  difficult  for  the  Englishman  to  understand 
how  bigotedly  the  Parisians  cling  to  the  claptrap  theatre. 

The  English  do  not  care  enough  about  the  theatre  to 
cling  to  its  traditions  or  persecute  anyone  for  their  sake ; 
but  the  French  do.  Besides,  in  fine  art,  France  is  a 
nation  of  born  pedants.  The  vulgar  English  painter 
paints  vulgar  pictures,  and  generally  sells  them.  But  the 
vulgar  French  painter  paints  classical  ones,  though 
whether  he  sells  them  or  not  I  do  not  know:  I  hope  not. 
The  corresponding  infatuation  in  the  theatre  is  for 
dramas  in  alexandrines ;  and  alexandrines  are  far  worse 
than  English  blank  verse,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
Racine  and  Corneille,  who  established  the  alexandrine 
tradition,  deliberately  aimed  at  classicism,  taking  the 
Greek  drama  as  their  model.  Even  a  foreigner  can  hear 
the  music  of  their  verse.  Corneille  wrote  alexandrines  as 
Dry  den  wrote  heroic  couplets,  —  in  a  virile,  stately,  hand- 


xx  Preface 

some  and  withal  human  way ;  and  Racine  had  tenderness 
and  beauty  as  well.  This  drama  of  Racine  and  Corneille, 
with  the  music  of  Gluck,  gave  the  French  in  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries  a  body  of  art  which  was 
very  beautiful,  very  refined,  very  delightful  for  culti- 
vated people,  and  very  tedious  for  the  ignorant.  When, 
through  the  spread  of  elementary  education,  the  ignorant 
invaded  the  theatre  in  overwhelming  numbers,  this  exqui- 
site body  of  art  became  a  dead  body,  and  was  practised 
by  nobody  except  the  amateurs  —  the  people  who  love 
what  has  been  already  done  in  art  and  loathe  the  real 
life  out  of  which  living  art  must  continually  grow  afresh. 
In  their  hands  it  passed  from  being  a  commercial  failure 
to  being  an  obsolete  nuisance. 

Commercially,  the  classic  play  was  supplanted  by  a 
nuisance  which  was  not  a  failure:  to  wit,  the  "  well  made 
play  "  of  Scribe  and  his  school.  The  manufacture  of 
well  made  plays  is  not  an  art:  it  is  an  industry.  It  is 
not  at  all  hard  for  a  literary  mechanic  to  acquire  it:  the 
only  difficulty  is  to  find  a  literary  mechanic  who  is  not 
by  nature  too  much  of  an  artist  for  the  job;  for  nothing 
spoils  a  well  made  play  more  infallibly  than  the  least 
alloy  of  high  art  or  the  least  qualm  of  conscience  on  the 
part  of  the  writer.  "  Art  for  art's  sake  "  is  the  formula 
of  the  well  made  play,  meaning  in  practice  "  Success  for 
money's  sake."  Now  great  art  is  never  produced  for  its 
own  sake.  It  is  too  difficult  to  be  worth  the  effort.  All 
the  great  artists  enter  into  a  terrible  struggle  with  the 
public,  often  involving  bitter  poverty  and  personal  humil- 
iation, and  always  involving  calumny  and  persecution, 
because  they  believe  they  are  apostles  doing  what  used 
to  be  called  the  Will  of  God,  and  is  now  called  by  many 
prosaic  names,  of  which  "  public  work  "  is  the  least  con- 
troversial. And  when  these  artists  have  travailed  and 
brought  forth,  and  at  last  forced  the  public  to  associate 
keen  pleasure  and  deep  interest  with  their  methods  and 


Preface  xxi 

morals,  a  crowd  of  smaller  men  —  art  confectioners,  we 
may  call  them  —  hasten  to  make  pretty  entertainments 
out  of  scraps  and  crumbs  from  the  masterpieces.  Offen- 
bach laid  hands  on  Beethoven's  Seventh  Symphony  and 
produced  J'aime  les  militaires,  to  the  disgust  of  Schu- 
mann, who  was  nevertheless  doing  precisely  the  same 
thing  in  a  more  pretentious  way.  And  these  confec- 
tioners are  by  no  means  mere  plagiarists.  They  bring 
all  sorts  of  engaging  qualities  to  their  work:  love  of 
beauty,  desire  to  give  pleasure,  tenderness,  humor,  every- 
thing except  the  high  republican  conscience,  the  identi- 
fication of  the  artist's  purpose  with  the  purpose  of  the 
universe,  which  alone  makes  an  artist  great. 

But  the  well  made  play  was  not  confectionery:  it  had 
not  even  the  derived  virtue  of  being  borrowed  from  the 
great  playwrights.  Its  formula  grew  up  in  the  days 
when  the  spread  of  elementary  schooling  produced  a 
huge  mass  of  playgoers  sufficiently  educated  to  want 
plays  instead  of  dog-fights,  but  not  educated  enough  to 
enjoy  or  understand  the  masterpieces  of  dramatic  art. 
Besides,  education  or  no  education,  one  cannot  live  on 
masterpieces  alone,  not  only  because  there  are  not  enough 
of  them,  but  because  new  plays  as  well  as  great  plays  are 
needed,  and  there  are  not  enough  Molieres  and  Shakes- 
pears  in  the  world  to  keep  the  demand  for  novelty  satis- 
fied. Hence  it  has  always  been  necessary  to  have  some 
formula  by  which  men  of  mediocre  talent  and  no  con- 
science can  turn  out  plays  for  the  theatrical  market. 
Such  men  have  written  melodramas  since  the  theatre 
existed.  It  was  in  the  nineteenth  century  that  the  de- 
mand for  manufactured  plays  was  extended  to  drawing 
room  plays  in  which  the  Forest  of  Bondy  and  the 
Auberge  des  Adrets,  the  Red  Barn  and  the  Cave  at  Mid- 
night, had  to  be  replaced  by  Lord  Blank's  flat  in  White- 
hall Court  and  the  Great  Hall,  Chevy  Chace.  Play- 
goers, being  by  that  time  mostly  poor  playgoers,  wanted 


xxii  Preface 

to  see  how  the  rich  live;  wanted  to  see  them  actually 
drinking  champagne  and  wearing  real  fashionable  dresses 
and  trousers  with  a  neatly  ironed  crease  down  the  knee. 


How  to  Write  a  Popular  Play 

The  formula  for  the  well  made  play  is  so  easy  that  I 
give  it  for  the  benefit  of  any  reader  who  feels  tempted  to 
try  his  hand  at  making  the  fortune  that  awaits  all  suc- 
cessful manufacturers  in  this  line.  First,  you  "  have  an 
idea  "  for  a  dramatic  situation.  If  it  strikes  you  as  a 
splendidly  original  idea,  whilst  it  is  in  fact  as  old  as  the 
hills,  so  much  the  better.  For  instance,  the  situation  of 
an  innocent  person  convicted  by  circumstances  of  a  crime 
may  always  be  depended  on.  If  the  person  is  a  woman, 
she  must  be  convicted  of  adultery.  If  a  young  officer,  he 
must  be  convicted  of  selling  information  to  the  enemy, 
though  it  is  really  a  fascinating  female  spy  who  has  en- 
snared him  and  stolen  the  incriminating  document.  If 
the  innocent  wife,  banished  from  her  home,  suffers 
agonies  through  her  separation  from  her  children,  and, 
when  one  of  them  is  dying  (of  any  disease  the  dramatist 
chooses  to  inflict),  disguises  herself  as  a  nurse  and  at- 
tends it  through  its  dying  convulsion  until  the  doctor, 
who  should  be  a  serio-comic  character,  and  if  possible  a 
faithful  old  admirer  of  the  lady's,  simultaneously  an- 
nounces the  recovery  of  the  child  and  the  discovery  of 
the  wife's  innocence,  the  success  of  the  play  may  be  re- 
garded as  assured  if  the  writer  has  any  sort  of  knack  for 
his  work.  Comedy  is  more  difficult,  because  it  requires 
a  sense  of  humor  and  a  good  deal  of  vivacity;  but  the 
process  is  essentially  the  same:  it  is  the  manufacture  of 
a  misunderstanding.  Having  manufactured  it,  you  place 
its  culmination  at  the  end  of  the  last  act  but  one,  which 
is  the  point  at  which  the  manufacture  of  the  play  begins. 
Then  you  make  your  first  act  out  of  the  necessary  intro- 


Preface  xxiii 

duction  of  the  characters  to  the  audience,  after  elaborate 
explanations,  mostly  conducted  by  servants,  solicitors, 
and  other  low  life  personages  (the  principals  must  all 
be  dukes  and  colonels  and  millionaires),  of  how  the  mis- 
understanding is  going  to  come  about.  Your  last  act 
consists,  of  course,  of  clearing  up  the  misunderstanding, 
and  generally  getting  the  audience  out  of  the  theatre  as 
best  you  can. 

Now  please  do  not  misunderstand  me  as  pretending 
that  this  process  is  so  mechanical  that  it  offers  no  oppor- 
tunity for  the  exercise  of  talent.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
so  mechanical  that  without  very  conspicuous  talent  no- 
body can  make  much  reputation  by  doing  it,  though  some 
can  and  do  make  a  living  at  it.  And  this  often  leads  the 
cultivated  classes  to  suppose  that  all  plays  are  written 
by  authors  of  talent.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  majority 
of  those  who  in  France  and  England  make  a  living  by 
writing  plays  are  unknown  and,  as  to  education,  all  but 
illiterate.  Their  names  are  not  worth  putting  on  the 
playbill,  because  their  audiences  neither  know  nor  care 
who  the  author  is,  and  often  believe  that  the  actors  im- 
provise the  whole  piece,  just  as  they  in  fact  do  sometimes 
improvise  the  dialogue.  To  rise  out  of  this  obscurity  you 
must  be  a  Scribe  or  a  Sardou,  doing  essentially  the  same 
thing,  it  is  true,  but  doing  it  wittily  and  ingeniously,  at 
moments  almost  poetically,  and  giving  the  persons  of  the 
drama  some  touches  of  real  observed  character. 


Why  the  Critics  are  always  Wrong 

Now  it  is  these  strokes  of  talent  that  set  the  critics 
wrong.  For  the  talent,  being  all  expended  on  the  for- 
mula, at  least  consecrates  the  formula  in  the  eyes  of  the 
critics.  Nay,  they  become  so  accustomed  to  the  formula 
that  at  last  they  cannot  relish  or  understand  a  play  that 
has  grown  naturally,  just  as  they  cannot  admire  the 


xxiv  Preface 


Venus  of  Milo  because  she  has  neither  a  corset  nor  high 
heeled  shoes.  They  are  like  the  peasants  who  are  so  ac- 
customed to  food  reeking  with  garlic  that  when  food  is 
served  to  them  without  it  they  declare  that  it  has  no  taste 
and  is  not  food  at  all. 

This  is  the  explanation  of  the  refusal  of  the  critics  of 
all  nations  to  accept  great  original  dramatists  like  Ibsen 
and  Brieux  as  real  dramatists,  or  their  plays  as  real 
plays.  No  writer  of  the  first  order  needs  the  formula 
any  more  than  a  sound  man  needs  a  crutch.  In  his 
simplest  mood,  when  he  is  only  seeking  to  amuse,  he  does 
not  manufacture  a  plot:  he  tells  a  story.  He  finds  no 
difficulty  in  setting  people  on  the  stage  to  talk  and  act 
in  an  amusing,  exciting  or  touching  way.  His  characters 
have  adventures  and  ideas  which  are  interesting  in  them- 
selves, and  need  not  be  fitted  into  the  Chinese  puzzle  of 
a  plot. 

The  Interpreter  of  Life 

But  the  great  dramatist  has  something  better  to  do 
than  to  amuse  either  himself  or  his  audience.  He  has  to 
interpret  life.  This  sounds  a  mere  pious  phrase  of  liter- 
ary criticism ;  but  a  moment's  consideration  will  discover 
its  meaning  and  its  exactitude.  Life  as  it  appears  to  us 
in  our  daily  experience  is  an  unintelligible  chaos  of  hap- 
penings. You  pass  Othello  in  the  bazaar  in  Aleppo,  lago 
on  the  jetty  in  Cyprus,  and  Desdemona  in  the  nave  of 
St.  Mark's  in  Venice  without  the  slightest  clue  to  their 
relations  to  one  another.  The  man  you  see  stepping  into 
a  chemist's  shop  to  buy  the  means  of  committing  murder 
or  suicide,  may,  for  all  you  know,  want  nothing  but  a 
liver  pill  or  a  toothbrush.  The  statesman  who  has  no 
other  object  than  to  make  you  vote  for  his  party  at  the 
next  election,  may  be  starting  you  on  an  incline  at  the 
foot  of  which  lies  war,  or  revolution,  or  a  smallpox  epi- 


Preface  xxv 

demic,  or  five  years  off  your  lifetime.  The  horrible  mur- 
der of  a  whole  family  by  the  father  who  finishes  by  kill- 
ing himself,  or  the  driving  of  a  young  girl  on  to  the 
streets,  may  be  the  result  of  your  discharging  an  em- 
ployee in  a  fit  of  temper  a  month  before.  To  attempt 
to  understand  life  from  merely  looking  on  at  it  as  it 
happens  in  the  streets  is  as  hopeless  as  trying  to  under- 
stand public  questions  by  studying  snapshots  of  public 
demonstrations.  If  we  possessed  a  series  of  cinemato- 
graphs of  all  the  executions  during  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
they  might  be  exhibited  a  thousand  times  without  enlight- 
ening the  audiences  in  the  least  as  to  the  meaning  of  the 
Revolution:  Robespierre  would  perish  as  "  un  mon- 
sieur "  and  Marie  Antoinette  as  "  une  femme."  Life  as 
it  occurs  is  senseless:  a  policeman  may  watch  it  and 
work  in  it  for  thirty  years  in  the  streets  and  courts  of 
Paris  without  learning  as  much  of  it  or  from  it  as  a  child 
or  a  nun  may  learn  from  a  single  play  by  Brieux.  For  it 
is  the  business  of  Brieux  to  pick  out  the  significant  inci- 
dents from  the  chaos  of  daily  happenings,  and  arrange 
them  so  that  their  relation  to  one  another  becomes  sig- 
nificant, thus  changing  us  from  bewildered  spectators  of 
a  monstrous  confusion  to  men  intelligently  conscious  of 
the  world  and  its  destinies.  This  is  the  highest  function 
that  man  can  perform  —  the  greatest  work  he  can  set  his 
hand  to;  and  this  is  why  the  great  dramatists  of  the 
world,  from  Euripides  and  Aristophanes  to  Shakespear 
and  Moliere,  and  from  them  to  Ibsen  and  Brieux,  take 
that  majestic  and  pontifical  rank  which  seems  so 
strangely  above  all  the  reasonable  pretensions  of  mere 
strolling  actors  and  theatrical  authors. 

How  the  Great  Dramatists  torture  the  Public 

Now  if  the  critics  are  wrong  in  supposing  that  the  for- 
mula of  the  well  made  play  is  not  only  an  indispensable 


xxvi  Preface 

factor  in  playwriting,  but  is  actually  the  essence  of  the 
play  itself  —  if  their  delusion  is  rebuked  and  confuted 
by  the  practice  of  every  great  dramatist,  even  when  he  is 
only  amusing  himself  by  story  telling,  what  must  happen 
to  their  poor  formula  when  it  impertinently  offers  its 
services  to  a  playwright  who  has  taken  on  his  supreme 
function  as  the  Interpreter  of  Life  ?  Not  only  has  he  no 
use  for  it,  but  he  must  attack  and  destroy  it;  for  one 
of  the  very  first  lessons  he  has  to  teach  to  a  play-ridden 
public  is  that  the  romantic  conventions  on  which  the 
formula  proceeds  are  all  false,  and  are  doing  incalculable 
harm  in  these  days  when  everybody  reads  romances  and 
goes  to  the  theatre.  Just  as  the  historian  can  teach  no 
real  history  until  he  has  cured  his  readers  of  the  romantic 
delusion  that  the  greatness  of  a  queen  consists  in  her 
being  a  pretty  woman  and  having  her  head  cut  off,  so 
the  playwright  of  the  first  order  can  do  nothing  with  his 
audiences  until  he  has  cured  them  of  looking  at  the  stage 
through  the  keyhole,  and  sniffing  round  the  theatre  as 
prurient  people  sniff  round  the  divorce  court.  The  cure 
is  not  a  popular  one.  The  public  suffers  from  it  exactly 
as  a  drunkard  or  a  snuff  taker  suffers  from  an  attempt  to 
conquer  the  habit.  The  critics  especially,  who  are  forced 
by  their  profession  to  indulge  immoderately  in  plays 
adulterated  with  falsehood  and  vice,  suffer  so  acutely 
when  deprived  of  them  for  a  whole  evening  that  they 
hurl  disparagements  and  even  abuse  and  insult  at  the 
merciless  dramatist  who  is  torturing  them.  To  a  bad 
play  of  the  kind  they  are  accustomed  to  they  can  be 
cruel  through  superciliousness,  irony,  impatience,  con- 
tempt, or  even  a  Rochefoucauldian  pleasure  in  a  friend's 
misfortune.  But  the  hatred  provoked  by  deliberately  in- 
flicted pain,  the  frantic  denials  as  of  a  prisoner  at  the 
bar  accused  of  a  disgraceful  crime,  the  clamor  for  ven- 
geance thinly  disguised  as  artistic  justice,  the  suspicion 
that  the  dramatist  is  using  private  information  and  mak- 


Preface  xxvii 

ing  a  personal  attack:  all  these  are  to  be  found  only 
when  the  playwright  is  no  mere  marchand  de  plaisir,  but, 
like  Brieux,  a  ruthless  revealer  of  hidden  truth  and  a 
mighty  destroyer  of  idols. 

Brieux's  Conquest  of  London 

So  well  does  Brieux  know  this  that  he  has  written  a 
play,  La  Foi,  showing  how  truth  is  terrible  to  men,  and 
how  false  religions  (theatrical  romance,  by  the  way, 
is  the  falsest  and  most  fantastically  held  of  all  the  false 
religions)  are  a  necessity  to  them.  With  this  play  he 
achieved,  for  the  first  time  on  record,  the  feat  of  winning 
a  success  in  a  fashionable  London  theatre  with  a  cold- 
blooded thesis  play.  Those  who  witnessed  the  perform- 
ance of  False  Gods  at  His  Majesty's  Theatre  this  year 
were  astonished  to  see  that  exceptionally  large  theatre 
filled  with  strangely  attentive  ordinary  playgoers,  to 
whose  customary  requirements  and  weaknesses  no  con- 
cession was  made  for  a  moment  by  the  playwright.  They 
were  getting  a  lesson  and  nothing  else.  The  same  fa- 
mous acting,  the  same  sumptuous  mise  en  scene,  had  not 
always  saved  other  plays  from  failure.  There  was  no 
enthusiasm:  one  might  almost  say  there  was  no  enjoy- 
ment. The  audience  for  once  had  something  better  to 
do  than  to  amuse  themselves.  The  old  playgoers  and  the 
critics,  who,  on  the  first  night,  had  politely  regretted  an 
inevitable  failure  after  waiting,  like  the  maturer  ladies 
at  the  sack  of  Ismail  in  Byron's  poem,  for  the  adultery 
to  begin,  asked  one  another  incredulously  whether  there 
could  really  be  money  in  this  sort  of  thing.  Such  feats 
had  been  performed  before  at  coterie  theatres  where  the 
expenses  were  low  and  where  the  plays  were  seasoned 
with  a  good  deal  of  ordinary  amusing  comedy;  but  in 
this  play  there  was  not  a  jest  from  beginning  to  end; 
and  the  size  of  the  theatre  and  the  expenses  of  produc- 


xxviii  Preface 

tion  were  on  a  princely  scale.  Yet  La  Foi  held  its  own. 
The  feat  was  quite  unprecedented ;  and  that  it  should 
have  been  achieved  for  the  first  time  by  a  Frenchman  is 
about  a  million  times  more  remarkable  than  that  the  first 
man  to  fly  across  the  channel  (the  two  events  were  almost 
simultaneous)  should  also  have  been  a  Frenchman. 

Parisian  Stupidity 

And  here  I  must  digress  for  a  moment  to  remark  that 
though  Paris  is  easily  the  most  prejudiced,  old-fashioned, 
obsolete-minded  city  in  the  west  of  Europe,  yet  when  she 
produces  great  men  she  certainly  does  not  do  it  by 
halves.  Unfortunately,  there  is  nothing  she  hates  more 
than  a  Frenchman  of  genius.  When  an  Englishman  says 
that  you  have  to  go  back  to  Michael  Angelo  to  find  a 
sculptor  who  can  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  as 
Rodin  without  manifest  absurdity,  the  Parisians  indig- 
nantly exclaim  that  only  an  ignorant  foreigner  could 
imagine  that  a  man  who  was  not  a  pupil  at  the  Beaux 
Arts  could  possibly  be  a  sculptor  at  all.  And  I  have 
already  described  how  they  talk  about  Brieux,  the  only 
French  dramatist  whose  fame  crosses  frontiers  and 
channels,  and  fills  the  continent.  To  be  quite  frank,  I 
cannot  to  this  day  understand  why  they  made  him  an  Aca- 
demician instead  of  starving  him  to  death  and  then  giv- 
ing him  a  statue.  Can  it  be  that  in  his  early  days,  before 
he  could  gain  his  living  by  the  theatre,  he  wrote  a  spell- 
ing book,  or  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  use  of 
pure  line  in  Greek  design?  To  suppose  that  they  did  it 
because  he  is  a  great  man  is  to  imply  that  they  know  a 
great  Frenchman  when  they  see  him,  which  is  contrary 
to  all  experience.  They  never  know  until  the  English 
tell  them. 


Preface  xxix 

Brieux  and  the  English  Theatre 

In  England  our  knowledge  of  Brieux  has  been  delayed 
by  the  childishness  of  our  theatre.  This  childishness  is 
by  no  means  to  be  deplored:  it  means  that  the  theatre  is 
occupied  with  the  elementary  education  of  the  masses 
instead  of  with  the  higher  education  of  the  classes. 
Those  who  desire  dramatic  performances  of  the  higher 
sort  have  procured  them  only  by  forming  clubs,  hiring 
theatres,  engaging  performers,  and  selecting  plays  for 
themselves.  After  1889,  when  Ibsen  first  became  known 
in  London  through  A  Doll's  House,  a  succession  of  these 
clubs  kept  what  may  be  called  the  serious  adult  drama 
fitfully  alive  until  1904,  when  Messrs. '  Vedrenne  and 
Barker  took  the  field  with  a  regular  theatrical  enterprise 
devoted  to  this  class  of  work,  and  maintained  it  until  the 
National  Theatre  project  was  set  on  foot,  and  provisional 
repertory  schemes  were  announced  by  established  com- 
mercial managements.  It  was  through  one  of  these  clubs, 
the  Stage  Society,  that  Brieux  reached  the  English  stage 
with  his  Bienfaiteurs.  Then  the  first  two  plays  in  this 
volume  were  performed,  and,  later  on,  Les  Hannetons. 
These  performances  settled  for  English  connoisseurs  the 
question  of  Brieux's  rank  among  modern  playwrights. 
Later  on  his  Robe  Rouge  introduced  the  ordinary  play- 
goers to  him ;  and  he  is  now  no  longer  one  of  the  curiosi- 
ties of  the  coterie  theatre,  as  even  Ibsen  to  some  extent 
still  is,  but  one  of  the  conquerors  of  the  general  British 
public. 

The  Censorship  in  France  and  England 

Unfortunately,  he  has  not  yet  been  able  to  conquer 
our  detestable,  discredited,  but  still  all-powerful  censor- 
ship. In  France  he  was  attacked  by  the  censorship  just 
as  in  England;  but  in  France  the  censorship  broke  itself 


xxx  Preface 

against  him  and  perished.  The  same  thing  would  prob- 
ably have  occurred  here  but  for  the  fact  that  our  Censor, 
by  a  grotesque  accident  of  history  —  to  be  precise,  be- 
cause Henry  VIII  began  the  censorship  of  the  theatre 
by  appointing  an  officer  of  his  own  household  to  do  the 
work  —  remains  part  of  the.  King's  retinue ;  and  his 
abolition  involves  the  curtailment  of  that  retinue  and 
therefore  the  reduction  of  the  King's  State,  always  a  very 
difficult  and  delicate  matter  in  a  monarchical  country.  In 
France  the  censorship  was  exercised  by  the  Minister  of 
Fine  Arts  (a  portfolio  that  does  not  exist  in  our  Cabinet), 
and  was  in  the  hands  of  two  or  three  examiners  of  plays, 
who  necessarily  behaved  exactly  like  our  Mr.  Redford; 
for,  as  I  have  so  often  pointed  out,  the  evils  of  censor- 
ship are  made  compulsory  by  the  nature  of  the  office,  and 
are  not  really  the  fault  of  the  individual  censor.  These 
gentlemen,  then,  prohibited  the  performance  of  Brieux's 
best  and  most  useful  plays,  just  as  Mr.  Redford  did  here. 
But  as  the  French  Parliament,  having  nobody  to  con- 
sider but  themselves  and  the  interests  of  the  nation,  pres- 
ently refused  to  vote  the  salaries  of  the  Censors,  the 
institution  died  a  natural  death.  We  have  no  such  sum- 
mary remedy  here.  Our  Censor's  salary  is  part  of  the 
King's  civil  list,  and  is  therefore  sacred.  Years  ago,  our 
Playgoers'  Club  asked  me  how  the  censorship  could  be 
abolished.  I  replied,  to  the  great  scandal  of  that  loyal 
body,  —  You  must  begin  by  abolishing  the  monarchy. 


Brieux  and  the  English  Censorship 

Nevertheless,  Brieux  has  left  his  mark  even  on  the 
English  censorship.  This  year  (1909)  the  prohibition 
of  his  plays  was  one  of  the  strongest  items  in  the  long  list 
of  grievances  by  which  the  English  playwrights  com- 
pelled the  Government  to  appoint  a  Select  Committee  of 


Preface  xxxi 

both  houses  of  Parliament  to  enquire  into  the  working 
of  the  censorship.  The  report  of  that  Committee  admits 
the  charge  brought  against  the  Censor  of  systematically 
suppressing  plays  dealing  seriously  with  social  problems 
whilst  allowing  frivolous  and  even  pornographic  plays  to 
pass  unchallenged.  It  advises  that  the  submission  of 
plays  to  the  Censor  shall  in  future  be  optional,  though  it 
does  not  dare  to  omit  the  customary  sycophantic  recom- 
mendation that  the  Lord  Chamberlain  shall  still  retain 
his  privilege  of  licensing  plays ;  and  it  proposes  that  the 
authors  and  managers  of  plays  so  licensed,  though  not 
exempt  from  prosecution,  shall  enjoy  certain  immunities 
denied  in  the  case  of  unlicensed  plays.  There  are  many 
other  conditions  which  need  not  be  gone  into  here;  but 
to  a  Frenchman  the  main  fact  that  stands  out  is  that  the 
accident  which  has  made  the  Censor  an  officer  of  the 
King's  Household  has  prevented  a  parliamentary  com- 
mittee from  recommending  the  abolition  of  his  control 
over  the  theatre  in  a  report  which  not  only  has  not  a 
word  to  say  in  his  defence,  but  expressly  declares  that  his 
license  affords  the  public  no  guarantee  that  the  plays  he 
approves  are  decent,  and  that  authors  of  serious  plays 
need  protection  against  his  unenlightened  despotism. 

Taboo 

We  may  therefore  take  it  on  the  authority  of  the 
Select  Committee  that  the  prohibition  by  the  English 
censorship  of  the  public  performances  of  the  three  plays 
in  this  book  does  not  afford  the  smallest  reasonable 
ground  for  condemning  them  as  improper  —  rather  the 
contrary.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  most  men,  if  asked  to 
guess  the  passages  to  which  the  Censor  took  exception, 
would  guess  wrongly.  Certainly  a  Frenchman  would. 
The  reason  is  that  though  in  England  as  in  France  what 
is  called  decency  is  not  a  reasoned  discrimination  between 


xxxii  Preface 

what  needs  to  be  said  and  what  ought  not  to  be  said,  but 
simply  the  observance  of  a  set  of  taboos,  these  taboos  are 
not  the  same  in  England  as  in  France.  A  Frenchman 
of  scrupulously  correct  behavior  will  sometimes  quite  in- 
nocently make  an  English  lady  blush  by  mentioning 
something  that  is  unmentionable  in  polite  society  in  Eng- 
land though  quite  mentionable  in  France.  To  take  a 
simple  illustration,  —  an  Englishman,  when  he  first  visits 
France,  is  always  embarrassed,  and  sometimes  shocked, 
on  finding  that  the  person  in  charge  of  a  public  lavatory 
for  men  is  a  woman.  I  cannot  give  reciprocal  instances 
of  the  ways  in  which  Englishmen  shock  the  French  na- 
tion, because  I  am  happily  unconscious  of  all  the  cochon- 
neries  of  which  I  am  no  doubt  guilty  when  I  am  in 
France.  But  that  I  do  occasionally  shock  the  brave 
French  bourgeois  to  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones  by  my 
indelicacy,  I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt.  There  is  only 
one  epithet  in  universal  use  for  foreigners.  That  epithet 
is  "  dirty." 

The  Attitude  of  the  People  to  the  Literary 
Arts 

These  differences  between  nation  and  nation  also  exist 
between  class  and  class  and  between  town  and  country. 
I  will  not  here  go  into  the  vexed  question  of  whether  the 
peasant's  way  of  blowing  his  nose  or  the  squire's  is  the 
more  cleanly  and  hygienic,  though  my  experience  as  a 
municipal  councillor  of  the  way  in  which  epidemics  are 
spread  by  laundries  makes  me  incline  to  the  side  of  the 
peasant.  What  is  beyond  all  question  is  that  each  seems 
disgusting  to  the  other.  And  when  we  come  from  physi- 
cal facts  to  moral  views  and  ethical  opinions  we  find  the 
same  antagonisms.  To  a  great  section  —  perhaps  the 
largest  section  —  of  the  people  of  England  and  France, 
all  novels,  plays,  and  songs  are  licentious;  and  the  habit 


Preface  xxxiii 

of  enjoying  them  is  a  mark  of  a  worthless  character.  To 
these  people  the  distinctions  made  by  the  literary  classes 
between  books  fit  for  young  girls  to  read  and  improper 
books  —  between  Paul  and  Virginia  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Maupin  or  Une  Vie,  between  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 
and  Ouida  —  have  no  meaning:  all  writers  of  love  stories 
and  all  readers  of  them  are  alike  shameless.  Cultivated 
Paris,  cultivated  London,  are  apt  to  overlook  people  who, 
as  they  seldom  read  and  never  write,  have  no  means  of 
making  themselves  heard.  But  such  simple  people 
heavily  outnumber  the  cultivated ;  and  if  they  could  also 
outwit  them,  literature  would  perish.  Yet  their  intoler- 
ance of  fiction  is  as  nothing  to  their  intolerance  of  fact. 
I  lately  heard  an  English  gentleman  state  a  very  simple 
fact  in  these  terms :  "I  never  could  get  on  with  my 
mother:  she  did  not  like  me,  and  I  did  not  like  her: 
my  brother  was  her  pet."  To  an  immense  number  of 
living  English  and  French  people  this  speech  would  sug- 
gest that  its  utterer  ought  to  be  burned  alive,  though  the 
substitution  of  stepmother  for  mother  and  of  half-brother 
for  brother  would  suffice  to  make  it  seem  quite  probable 
and  natural.  And  this,  observe,  not  in  the  least  because 
all  these  horrified  people  adore  and  are  adored  by  their 
mothers,  but  simply  because  they  have  a  fixed  conven- 
tion that  the  proper  name  of  the  relation  between  mother 
and  son  is  love.  However  bitter  and  hostile  it  may  in 
fact  be  in  some  cases,  to  call  it  by  any  other  name  is  a 
breach  of  convention ;  and  by  the  instinctive  •  logic  of 
timidity  they  infer  that  a  man  to  whom  convention  is  not 
sacred  is  a  dangerous  man.  To  them  the  ten  command- 
ments are  nothing  but  arbitrary  conventions ;  and  the 
man  who  says  to-day  that  he  does  not  love  his  mother, 
may,  they  conclude,  to-morrow  steal,  rob,  murder, 
commit  adultery,  and  bear  false  witness  against  his 
neighbor. 


xxxiv  Preface 


The  Dread  of  the  Original  Thinker 

This  is  the  real  secret  of  the  terror  inspired  by  an 
original  thinker.  In  repudiating  convention  he  is  repudi- 
ating that  on  which  his  neighbors  are  relying  for  their 
sense  of  security.  But  he  is  usually  also  doing  something 
even  more  unpopular.  He  is  proposing  new  obligations 
to  add  to  the  already  heavy  burden  of  duty.  When  the 
boy  Shelley  elaborately  and  solemnly  cursed  his  father 
for  the  entertainment  of  his  friends,  he  only  shocked  us. 
But  when  the  man  Shelley  told  us  that  we  should  feed, 
clothe  and  educate  all  the  children  in  the  country  as  care- 
fully as  if  they  were  our  immediate  own,  we  lost  our  tem- 
pers with  him  and  deprived  him  of  the  custody  of  his 
own  children. 

It  is  useless  to  complain  that  the  conventional  masses 
are  unintelligent.  To  begin  with,  they  are  not  unintelli- 
gent except  in  the  sense  in  which  all  men  are  unintelli- 
gent in  matters  in  which  they  are  not  experts.  I  object 
to  be  called  unintelligent  merely  because  I  do  not  know 
enough  about  mechanical  construction  to  be  able  to  judge 
whether  a  motor  car  of  new  design  is  an  improvement 
or  not,  and  therefore  prefer  to  buy  one  of  the  old  type 
to  which  I  am  accustomed.  The  brave  bourgeois  whom 
Brieux  scandalizes  must  not  be  dismissed  with  ridicule 
by  the  man  of  letters  because,  not  being  an  expert  in 
morals,  he  prefers  the  old  ways  and  mistrusts  the  new. 
His  position  is  a  very  reasonable  one.  He  says,  in  effect. 
"  If  I  am  to  enjoy  any  sense  of  security,  I  must  be  able 
to  reckon  on  other  people  behaving  in  a  certain  ascer- 
tained way.  Never  mind  whether  it  is  the  ideally  right 
way  or  the  ideally  wrong  way:  it  will  suit  me  well 
enough  if  only  it  is  convenient  and,  above  all,  unmistak- 
able. Lay  it  down  if  you  like  that  people  are  not  to 
pay  debts  and  are  to  murder  one  another  whenever  they 


Preface  xxxv 

get  a  chance.  In  that  case  I  can  refuse  to  give  credit, 
and  can  carry  weapons  and  learn  to  use  them  to  defend 
myself.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  settle  that  debts  are 
to  be  enforced  and  the  peace  kept  by  the  police,  I  will 
give  credit  and  renounce  the  practice  of  arms.  But  the 
one  thing  that  I  cannot  stand  is  not  knowing  what  the 
social  contract  is." 


The  Justification  of  Conventionality 

It  is  a  cherished  tradition  in  English  politics  that  at 
a  meeting  of  Lord  Melbourne's  Cabinet  in  the  early  days 
of  Queen  Victoria,  the  Prime  Minister,  when  the  meet- 
ing threatened  to  break  up  in  confusion,  put  his  back  to 
the  door  and  said,  in  the  cynically  profane  manner  then 
fashionable:  "Gentlemen:  we  can  tell  the  House  the 
truth  or  we  can  tell  it  a  lie:  I  do  not  care  a  damn  which. 
All  I  insist  on  is  that  we  shall  all  tell  the  same  lie;  and 
you  shall  not  leave  the  room  until  you  have  settled  what 
it  is  to  be."  Just  so  does  the  bourgeois  perceive  that  the 
essential  thing  is  not  whether  a  convention  is  right  or 
wrong,  but  that  everybody  shall  know  what  it  is  and  ob- 
serve it.  His  cry  is  always:  "  I  want  to  know  where  I 
stand."  Tell  him  what  he  may  do  and  what  he  may  not 
do;  and  make  him  feel  that  he  may  depend  on  other 
people  doing  or  not  doing  the  same;  and  he  feels  se- 
cure, knowing  where  he  stands  and  where  other  people 
stand.  His  dread  and  hatred  of  revolutions  and  heresies 
and  men  with  original  ideas  is  his  dread  of  disorientation 
and  insecurity.  Those  who  have  felt  earthquakes  assure 
us  that  there  is  no  terror  like  the  terror  of  the  earth 
swaying  under  the  feet  that  have  always  depended  on  it 
as  the  one  immovable  thing  in  the  world.  That  is  just 
how  the  ordinary  respectable  man  feels  when  some  man 
of  genius  rocks  the  moral  ground  beneath  him  by  denying 
the  validity  of  a  convention.  The  popular  phrases  by 


xxxvi  Preface 

which  such  innovators  are  described  are  always  of  the 
same  kind.  The  early  Christians  were  called  men  who 
wished  to  turn  the  world  upside  down.  The  modern 
critics  of  morals  are  reproached  for  "  standing  on  their 
heads."  There  is  no  pretence  of  argument,  or  of  any 
understanding  of  the  proposals  of  the  reformers:  there 
is  simply  panic  and  a  demand  for  suppression  at  all  costs. 
The  reformer  is  not  forbidden  to  advance  this  or  that 
definite  opinion,  because  his  assailants  are  too  frightened 
to  know  or  care  what  his  opinions  are:  he  is  forbidden 
simply  to  speak  in  an  unusual  way  about  morals  and  reli- 
gion, or  to  mention  any  subject  that  is  not  usually  men- 
tioned in  public. 

This  is  the  terror  which  the  English  censorship,  like 
all  other  censorships,  gives  effect  to.  It  explains  what 
puzzles  most  observers  of  the  censorship  so  much: 
namely,  its  scandalous  laxity  towards  and  positive  en- 
couragement of  the  familiar  and  customary  pornographic 
side  of  theatrical  art  simultaneously  with  its  intolerance 
of  the  higher  drama,  which  is  always  unconventional  and 
super-bourgeois  in  its  ethics.  To  illustrate,  let  me  cite 
the  point  on  which  the  English  censorship  came  into  con- 
flict with  Brieux,  when  Les  Hannetons  was  first  per- 
formed by  the  Stage  Society. 

Why  Les  Hannetons  was  Censored 

Les  Hannetons  is  a  very  powerful  and  convincing 
demonstration  of  the  delusiveness  of  that  sort  of  freedom 
which  men  try  to  secure  by  refusing  to  marry,  and  living 
with  a  mistress  instead.  The  play  is  a  comedy :  the  audi- 
ence laughs  throughout ;  but  the  most  dissolute  man  pres- 
ent leaves  the  theatre  convinced  that  the  unfortunate 
hero  had  better  have  been  married  ten  times  over  than 
fallen  into  such  bondage  as  his  liaison  has  landed  him  in. 
To  witness  a  performance  might  very  wisely  be  made 


Preface  xxxvii 

part  of  the  curriculum  of  every  university  college  and 
polytechnic  in  the  country. 

Now  those  who  do  not  know  the  ways  of  the  censorship 
may  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  the  objection  of  the 
Censor  was  to  the  exhibition  on  the  stage  of  two  persons 
living  together  in  immoral  relations.  They  would  be 
greatly  mistaken.  The  Censor  made  no  difficulty  what- 
ever about  that.  Even  the  funny  but  ruthless  scene 
where  the  woman  cajoles  the  man  by  kissing  him  on  a 
certain  susceptible  spot  on  his  neck  —  a  scene  from 
which  our  shamed  conscience  shrinks  as  from  a  branding 
iron  —  was  licensed  without  a  word  of  remonstrance. 
But  there  is  a  searching  passage  in  the  play  where  the 
woman  confesses  to  a  girl  friend  that  one  of  the  lies 
by  which  she  induced  the  man  to  enter  into  relations  with 
her  was  that  he  was  not  her  first  lover.  The  friend  is 
simple  enough  to  express  surprise,  thinking  that  this, 
far  from  being  an  inducement,  would  have  roused  jeal- 
ousy and  disgust.  The  woman  replies  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, no  man  likes  to  face  the  responsibility  of  tempting 
a  girl  to  her  first  step  from  the  beaten  path,  and  that 
girls  take  care  accordingly  not  to  let  them  know  it. 

This  is  one  of  those  terrible  stripping  strokes  by  which 
a  master  of  realism  suddenly  exposes  a  social  sore  which 
has  been  plastered  over  with  sentimental  nonsense  about 
erring  Magdalens,  vicious  nonsense  about  gaiety,  or 
simply  prudish  silence.  No  young  man  or  young  woman 
hearing  it,  however  anarchical  their  opinions  may  be  as 
to  sexual  conduct,  can  possibly  imagine  afterwards  that 
the  relation  between  "  les  hannetons  "  is  honest,  charm- 
ing, sentimentally  interesting,  or  pardonable  by  the  self- 
respect  of  either.  It  is  felt  instinctively  to  have  some- 
thing fundamentally  dishonorable  in  it,  in  spite  of  the 
innocence  of  the  natural  affection  of  the  pair  for  one  an- 
other. Yet  this  is  precisely  the  passage  that  the  Censor 
refused  to  pass.  All  the  rest  was  duly  licensed.  The 


xxxviii  Preface 

exhibition  of  the  pretty,  scheming,  lying,  sensual  girl 
fixing  herself  with  triumphant  success  on  the  meanly 
prudent  sensual  man,  and  having  what  many  women 
would  consider  rather  a  good  time  of  it,  was  allowed  and 
encouraged  by  the  court  certificate  of  propriety.  But 
the  deadly  touch  that  made  it  impossible  for  even  the 
most  thoughtless  pair  in  the  audience  to  go  and  do  like- 
wise without  loathing  themselves,  was  forbidden. 

Misadventure  of  a  Frenchman  in  Westminster 
Abbey 

In  short,  the  censorship  did  what  it  always  does :  it  left 
the  poison  on  the  table  and  carefully  locked  up  the  anti- 
dote. And  it  did  this,  not  from  a  fiendish  design  to 
destroy  the  souls  of  the  people,  but  solely  because  the 
passage  involved  a  reference  by  a  girl  to  her  virginity, 
which  is  unusual  and  therefore  tabooed.  The  Censor 
never  troubled  himself  as  to  the  meaning  or  effect  of  the 
passage.  It  represented  the  woman  as  doing  an  unusual 
thing:  therefore  a  dangerous,  possibly  subversive  thing. 
In  England,  when  we  are  scandalized  and  can  give  no 
direct  reason  why,  we  exclaim  "  What  next?  "  That  is 
the  continual  cry  of  the  Censor's  soul.  If  a  girl  may 
refer  to  her  virginity  on  the  stage,  what  may  she  not 
refer  to?  This  instinctive  regard  to  consequences  was 
once  impressed  painfully  on  a  pious  Frenchman  who,  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  knelt  down  to  pray.  The  verger, 
who  had  never  seen  such  a  thing  happen  before,  promptly 
handed  him  over  to  the  police  and  charged  him  with 
"  brawling."  Fortunately,  the  magistrate  had  compas- 
sion on  the  foreigner's  ignorance ;  and  even  went  the 
length  of  asking  why  he  should  not  be  allowed  to  pray 
in  church.  The  reply  of  the  verger  was  simple  and 
obvious.  "  If  we  allowed  that,"  he  said,  "  we  should 
have  people  praying  all  over  the  place."  And  to  this 


Preface  xxxix 

day  the  rule  in  Westminster  Abbey  is  that  you  may  stroll 
about  and  look  at  the  monuments,  but  you  must  not 
on  any  account  pray.  Similarly,  on  the  stage  you  may 
represent  murder,  gluttony,  sexual  vice,  and  all  the 
crimes  in  the  calendar  and  out  of  it,  but  you  must  not 
say  anything  unusual  about  them. 

Marriage  and  Malthus 

If  Brieux  found  himself  blocked  by  the  censorship 
when  he  was  exposing  the  vice  of  illicit  unions,  it  will 
surprise  no  one  to  learn  that  his  far  more  urgently  needed 
exposures  of  the  intemperance  and  corruption  of  mar- 
riage itself  was  fiercely  banned.  The  vulgar,  and  con- 
sequently the  official,  view  of  marriage  is  that  it  hallows 
all  the  sexual  relations  of  the  parties  to  it.  That  it  may 
mask  all  the  vices  of  the  coarsest  libertinage  with  added 
elements  of  slavery  and  cruelty  has  always  been  true  to 
some  extent;  but  during  the  last  forty  years  it  has  be- 
come so  serious  a  matter  that  conscientious  dramatists 
have  to  vivisect  legal  unions  as  ruthlessly  as  illegal  ones. 
For  it  happens  that  just  about  forty  years  ago  the  propa- 
ganda of  Neo-Malthusianism  changed  the  bearing  of 
children  from  an  involuntary  condition  of  marriage  to  a 
voluntary  one.  From  the  moment  this  momentous  dis- 
covery was  made,  childless  marriage  became  available  to 
male  voluptuaries  as  the  cheapest  way  of  keeping  a  mis- 
tress, and  to  female  ones  as  the  most  convenient  and  re- 
spectable way  of  being  kept  in  idle  luxury  by  a  man. 
The  effects  of  this  have  already  been  startling,  and  will 
yet  be  revolutionary  as  far  as  marriage  is  concerned, 
both  in  lavr  and  custom.  The  work  of  keeping  the  popu- 
lations of  Europe  replenished  received  a  sudden  check, 
amounting  in  France  and  England  to  a  threat  of  actual 
retrogression.  The  appointment  of  a  Royal  Commission 
to  enquire  into  the  decline  of  the  birthrate  in  the  very 


xl  Preface 

sections  of  the  population  which  most  need  to  be  main- 
tained, is  probably  not  very  far  off:  the  more  far-seeing 
of  those  who  know  the  facts  have  prophesied  such  a  step 
for  a  long  time  past.  The  expectation  of  the  Neo- 
Malthusians  that  the  regulation  of  births  in  our  families 
would  give  the  fewer  children  born  a  better  chance  of 
survival  in  greater  numbers  and  in  fuller  health  and 
efficiency  than  the  children  of  the  old  unrestricted  fami- 
lies, and  of  the  mother  exhausted  by  excessive  childbear- 
ing,  has  no  doubt  been  fulfilled  in  some  cases ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  artificial  sterility  seems  to  be  beating  natural  fer- 
tility; for  as  far  as  can  be  judged  by  certain  sectional 
but  typical  private  censuses,  the  average  number  of  chil- 
dren produced  is  being  dragged  down  to  one  and  a  half 
per  family  by  the  large  proportion  of  intentionally  child- 
less marriages,  and  the  heavy  pressure  of  the  cost  of 
private  childbearing  on  the  scanty  incomes  of  the  masses. 
That  this  will  force  us  to  a  liberal  State  endowment 
of  parentage,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  now  doubted  by 
people  who  understand  the  problem:  in  fact,  as  I  write, 
the  first  open  step  has  already  been  taken  by  the  Govern- 
ment's proposal  to  exempt  parents  from  the  full  burden 
of  taxation  borne  by  the  childless.  There  has  also  begun 
a  change  in  public  opinion  as  to  the  open  abuse  of  mar- 
riage as  a  mere  means  by  which  any  pair  can  procure  a 
certificate  of  respectability  by  paying  for  it,  which  may 
quite  possibly  end  in  the  disuse  of  the  ceremony  for  all 
except  fertile  unions.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the 
Church,  it  is  a  manifest  profanation  that  couples  whose 
only  aim  is  a  comfortable  domesticity  should  obtain  for 
it  the  sacrament  of  religious  marriage  on  pretence  of 
unselfish  and  publicly  important  purposes  which  they 
have  not  the  smallest  intention  of  carrying  out.  From 
the  secular  point  of  view,  there  is  no  reason  why  couples 
who  do  not  intend  to  have  children  should  be  allowed  to 
enslave  one  another  by  all  the  complicated  legal  restric- 


Preface  xli 

tions  of  their  liberty  and  property  which  are  attached  to 
marriage  solely  to  secure  the  responsibility  of  parents 
to  the  State  for  their  children. 

Brieux  and  the  Respectable  Married  Man 

All  these  by  no  means  remote  prospects,  familiar 
though  they  are  to  the  statesman  and  sociologist,  are 
amazing  to  the  bourgeois  even  when  he  is  personally  im- 
plicated in  the  change  of  practice  that  is  creating  the 
necessitjr  for  a  change  in  law  and  in  opinion.  He  has 
changed  his  practice  privately,  without  talking  about  it 
except  in  secret,  or  in  passages  of  unprintable  Rabelais- 
ian jocosity  with  his  friends;  and  he  is  not  only  unable 
to  see  why  anyone  else  should  talk  publicly  about  the 
change,  but  terrified  lest  what  he  is  doing  furtively  and 
hypocritically  should  be  suddenly  dragged  into  the  light, 
and  his  own  case  recorded,  perhaps,  in  public  statistics  in 
support  of  innovations  which  vaguely  suggest  to  him  the 
destruction  of  morals  and  the  break-up  of  the'  family. 
But  both  his  pruderies  and  his  terrors  must  give  way 
before  the  absolute  necessity  for  re-examining  the  foun- 
dations of  our  social  structure  after  the  shock  they  have 
received  from  the  discovery  of  artificial  sterilization,  and 
their  readjustment  to  the  new  strains  they  have  to  bear 
as  a  consequence  of  that  discovery. 

Tolstoy,  with  his  Kreutzer  Sonata,  was  the  first  to 
carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's  country  by  showing  that 
marriage  intensified  instead  of  eliminating  every  element 
of  evil  in  sexual  relations ;  but  Brieux  was  the  first 
dramatist  to  see  not  only  the  hard  facts  of  the  situation, 
but  its  political  importance.  He  has  seen  in  particular 
that  a  new  issue  has  arisen  in  that  eternal  conflict  of  the 
sexes  which  is  created  by  the  huge  difference  between 
the  transient  pleasure  of  the  man  and  the  prolonged 
suffering  of  the  woman  in  maintaining  the  population. 


xlii  Preface 

Malthusianism,  when  it  passed  from  being  the  specula- 
tion of  an  economist  to  being  the  ardent  faith  of  a  de- 
voted band  of  propagandists,  touched  our  feelings  mainly 
as  a  protest  against  the  burden  of  excessive  childbearing 
imposed  on  married  women.  It  was  not  then  foreseen 
that  the  triumph  of  the  propaganda  might  impose  a  still 
worse  burden  on  them,  —  the  burden  of  enforced  sterility. 
Before  Malthus  was  born,  cases  were  familiar  enough  in 
which  wives  who  had  borne  two  or  three  children  as  an 
inevitable  consequence  of  their  conjugal  relations  had 
thereupon  rebelled  against  further  travail,  and  discon- 
tinued the  relations  by  such  a  resolute  assertion  of  selfish- 
ness as  is  not  easy  to  an  amiable  woman  and  practically 
not  possible  to  a  loving  or  a  jealous  wife.  But  the  case 
of  a  man  refusing  to  fulfil  his  parental  function  and 
thereby  denying  the  right  of  his  wife  to  motherhood  was 
unknown.  Yet  it  immediately  and  inevitably  arose  the 
moment  men  became  possessed  of  the  means  of  doing  this 
without  self-denial.  A  wife  could  thus  be  put  in  a  posi- 
tion intolerable  to  a  woman  of  honor  as  distinguished 
from  a  frank  voluptuary.  She  could  be  condemned  to 
barren  bodily  slavery  without  remedy.  To  keep  silence 
about  so  monstrous  a  wrong  as  this  merely  because  the 
subject  is  a  tabooed  one  was  not  possible  to  Brieux. 
Censorship  or  no  censorship,  it  had  to  be  said,  and  in- 
deed shouted  from  the  housetops,  if  nothing  else  would 
make  people  attend,  that  this  infamy  existed  and  must  be 
remedied.  And  Brieux  touched  the  evil  at  its  worst  spot, 
—  in  that  section  of  the  middle  class  in  which  the  need 
for  pecuniary  prudence  has  almost  swallowed  up  every 
more  human  feeling.  In  this  most  wretched  of  all  classes 
there  is  no  employment  for  women  except  the  employ- 
ment of  wife  and  mother,  and  no  provision  for  women 
without  employment.  The  fathers  are  too  poor  to  pro- 
vide. The  daughter  must  marry  whom  she  can  get:  if 
the  first  chance,  which  she  dares  not  refuse,  is  not  that 


Preface  xliii 

of  a  man  whom  she  positively  dislikes,  she  may  consider 
herself  fortunate.  Her  real  hope  of  affection  and  self- 
respect  lies  in  her  children.  And  yet  she  above  all 
women  is  subject  to  the  danger  that  the  dread  of  poverty, 
which  is  the  ruling  factor  in  her  husband's  world,  may  in- 
duce him  to  deny  her  right  and  frustrate  her  function 
of  motherhood,  using  her  simply  as  a  housekeeper  and 
a  mistress  without  paying  her  the  market  price  of  such 
luxuries  or  forfeiting  his  respectability.  To  make  us 
understand  what  this  horror  means,  Brieux  wrote  Les 
Trois  Filles  de  Monsieur  Dupont,  or,  in  equivalent  Eng- 
lish, The  Three  Daughters  of  Mr.  Smith.  Mr.  Smith, 
in  the  person  of  the  Censor,  immediately  shrieked  "  You 
must  not  mention  such  things."  Mr.  Smith  was  wrong: 
they  are  just  the  things  that  must  be  mentioned,  and 
mentioned  again  and  yet  again,  until  they  are  set  right. 
Surely,  of  all  the  anomalies  of  our  marriage  law,  there 
is  none  more  mischievously  absurd  than  that  a  woman 
can  have  her  marriage  annulled  for  her  husband's  invol- 
untary, but  not  for  his  voluntary  sterility.  And  the  man 
is  in  the  same  predicament,  though  his  wife  now  has  the 
same  power  as  he  of  frustrating  the  public  purpose  of  all 
marriages. 

Brieux  shows  the  Other  Side 

But  Brieux  is  not,  as  the  ordinary  man  mostly  is,  a 
mere  reactionist  against  the  latest  oversights  and  mis- 
takes, becoming  an  atheist  at  every  flaw  discovered  in 
popular  theology,  and  recoiling  into  the  grossest  super- 
stition when  some  Jesuit  who  happens  by  exception  to 
be  a  clever  and  subtle  man  (about  the  last  thing,  by  the 
way,  that  a  real  live  Jesuit  ever  is)  shows  him  that  popu- 
lar atheism  is  only  theology  without  mind  or  purpose. 
The  ordinary  man,  when  Brieux  makes  him  aware  of  the 
fact  that  Malthusianism  has  produced  an  unexpected  and 
revolting  situation,  instantly  conceives  a  violent  preju- 


xliv  Preface 

dice  against  it,  pointing  to  the  declining  population  as 
evidence  that  it  is  bringing  ruin  on  the  human  race,  and 
clamoring  for  the  return  of  the  conjugal  morality  of  his 
grandmother,  as  Theodore  Roosevelt  did  when  he  was 
President  of  the  United  States  of  America.  It  therefore 
became  necessary  for  Brieux  to  head  him  off  in  his  fran- 
tic flight  by  writing  another  play,  Maternity,  to  remind 
him  of  the  case  for  Malthusianism,  and  to  warn  him  — 
if  he  is  capable  of  the  warning  —  that  progress  is  not 
achieved  by  panic-stricken  rushes  back  and  forward  be- 
tween one  folly  and  another,  but  by  sifting  all  move- 
ments and  adding  what  survives  the  sifting  to  the  fabric 
of  our  morality.  For  the  fact  that  Malthusianism  has 
made  new  crimes  possible  should  not  discredit  it,  and 
cannot  stop  it,  because  every  step  gained  by  man  in  his 
continuous  effort  to  control  Nature  necessarily  does  the 
same.  Flying,  for  instance,  which  has  become  practical 
as  a  general  human  art  for  the  first  time  this  year,  is 
capable  of  such  alarming  abuse  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of 
a  clamor  for  its  restriction,  and  even  for  its  prohibition, 
that  will  speedily  make  the  present  clamor  against  motor 
cars  as  completely  forgotten  as  the  clamor  against 
bicycles  was  when  motor -cars  appeared.  But  the  motor 
car  cannot  be  suppressed:  it  is  improving  our  roads,  im- 
proving the  manners  and  screwing  up  the  capacity  and 
conduct  of  all  who  use  them,  improving  our  regulation  of 
traffic,  improving  both  locomotion  and  character  as  every 
victory  over  Nature  finally  improves  the  world  and  the 
race.  Malthusianism  is  no  exception  to  the  rule:  its 
obvious  abuses,  and  the  new  need  for  protecting  mar- 
riage from  being  made  a  mere  charter  of  libertinage  and 
slavery  by  its  means,  must  be  dealt  with  by  improve- 
ments in  conduct  and  law,  and  not  by  a  hopeless  attempt 
to  drive  us  all  back  to  the  time  of  Mrs.  Gamp.  The 
tyranny  which  denies  to  the  wife  the  right  to  become  a 
mother  has  become  possible  through  the  discovery  of  the 


Preface  xlv 

means  of  escape  from  the  no  less  unbearable  tyranny 
which  compelled  her  to  set  another  child  at  the  table 
round  which  those  she  had  already  borne  were  starving 
because  there  was  not  enough  food  for  them.  When  the 
French  Government,  like  Colonel  Roosevelt,  could  think 
of  no  better  cure  for  the  new  tyranny  than  a  revival  of 
the  old,  Brieux  added  a  play  on  the  old  tyranny  to  his 
play  on  the  new  tyranny. 

This  is  the  explanation  of  what  stupid  people  call  the 
inconsistencies  of  those  modern  dramatists  who,  like 
Ibsen  and  Brieux,  are  prophets  as  well  as  playwrights. 
Ibsen  did  not  write  The  Wild  Duck  to  ridicule  the 
lesson  he  had  already  taught  in  Pillars  of  Society  and 
An  Enemy  of  the  People:  he  did  it  to  head  off  his 
disciples  when,  in  their  stampede  from  idealism,  they 
forgot  the  need  of  ideals  and  illusions  to  men  not  strong 
enough  to  bear  the  truth.  Brieux's  La  Foi  has  virtu- 
ally the  same  theme.  It  is  not  an  ultramontane  tract  to 
defend  the  Church  against  the  sceptic.  It  is  a  solemn 
warning  that  you  have  not,  as  so  many  modern  sceptics 
assume,  disposed  of  the  doctrine  when  you  have  proved 
that  it  is  false.  The  miracle  of  St.  Januarius  is  worked, 
not  by  men  who  believe  in  it,  but  by  men  who  know  it  to 
be  a  trick,  but  know  also  that  men  cannot  be  governed  by 
the  truth  unless  they  are  capable  of  the  truth,  and  yet 
must  be  governed  somehow,  truth  or  no  truth.  Mater- 
nity and  The  Three  Daughters  of  Mr.  Smith  are 
not  contradictory:  they  are  complementary,  like  An 
Enemy  of  the  People  and  The  Wild  Duck.  I  myself 
have  had  to  introduce  into  one  of  my  plays  a  scene  in 
which  a  young  man  defends  his  vices  on  the  ground  that 
he  is  one  of  my  disciples.  I  did  so  because  the  incident 
had  actually  occurred  in  a  criminal  court,  where  a  young 
prisoner  gave  the  same  reason  and  was  sentenced  to  six 
months'  imprisonment,  less,  I  fear,  for  the  offence  than 
for  the  attempt  to  justify  it. 


xlvi  Preface 

The  Most  Unmentionable  of  All  Subjects 

Finally,  Brieux  attacked  the  most  unmentionable  sub- 
ject of  all,  —  the  subject  of  the  diseases  that  are  supposed 
to  be  the  punishment  of  profligate  men  and  worthless 
women.  Here  the  taboo  acquires  double  force.  Not  only 
must  not  the  improper  thing  be  mentioned,  but  the  evil 
must  not  be  remedied,  because  it  is  a  just  retribution  and 
a  wholesome  deterrent.  The  last  point  may  be  dismissed 
by  simply  inquiring  how  r,  disease  can  possibly  act  as  a 
deterrent  when  people  are  kept  in  ignorance  of  its  exist- 
ence. But  the  punishment  theory  is  a  hideous  mistake. 
It  might  as  well  be  contended  that  fires  should  not  be 
put  out  because  they  are  the  just  punishment  of  the  in- 
cendiary. Most  of  the  victims  of  these  diseases  are 
entirely  innocent  persons:  children  who  do  not  know 
what  vice  means,  and  women  to  whom  it  is  impossible  to 
explain  what  is  the  matter  with  them.  Nor  are  their 
fathers  and  husbands  necessarily  to  blame.  Even  if 
they  were,  it  would  be  wicked  to  leave  them  unwarned 
when  the  consequences  can  spread  so  widely  beyond 
themselves;  for  there  are  dozens  of  indirect  ways  in 
which  this  contagion  can  take  place  exactly  as  any  other 
contagion  can.  The  presence  of  one  infected  person 
in  a  house  may  lead  to  the  infection  of  everybody  else 
in  it,  even  if  they  have  never  seen  one  another.  In  fact 
it  is  impossible  to  prove  in  any  given  case  that  the 
sufferer  is  in  any  way  culpable:  every  profligate  excuses 
himself  or  herself  to  the  doctor  on  this  ground;  and 
though  the  excuse  may  not  be  believed,  its  truth  is  gen- 
erally possible.  Add  to  the  chances  of  contagion  the 
hereditary  transmission  of  the  disease,  and  the  fact  that 
an  innocent  person  receiving  it  from  a  guilty  partner 
without  other  grounds  for  divorce  has  no  legal  redress ; 
and  it  becomes  at  once  apparent  that  every  guilty  case 
may  produce  several  innocent  ones.  Under  such  cir- 


Preface  xlvii 

cumstances,  even  if  it  were  possible  in  a  civilized  com- 
munity to  leave  misconduct  to  be  checked  by  its  natural 
or  accidental  consequences,  or  by  private  vengeance  in- 
stead of  by  carefully  considered  legal  measures,  such  an 
anarchical  solution  must  be  ruled  out  in  the  present 
case,  as  the  disease  strikes  blindly  at  everyone  whom  it 
reaches,  and  there  are  as  many  innocent  paths  for  its 
venom  as  guilty  ones.  The  taboo  actually  discriminates 
heavily  against  the  innocent,  because,  as  taboos  are  not 
respected  in  profligate  society,  systematic  profligates 
learn  the  danger  in  their  loose  conversations,  and  take 
precautions,  whereas  the  innocent  expose  themselves 
recklessly  in  complete  ignorance,  handling  possibly  con- 
taminated articles  and  entering  possibly  infected  places 
without  the  least  suspicion  that  any  such  danger  exists. 
In  Brieux's  play  the  husband  alone  is  culpable;  but  his 
misconduct  presently  involves  his  wife,  his  child,  and  his 
child's  nurse.  It  requires  very  little  imagination  to  see 
that  this  by  no  means  exhausts  the  possibilities.  The 
nurse,  wholly  guiltless  of  the  original  sin,  is  likely  to 
spread  its  consequences  far  more  widely  than  the  orig- 
inal sinner.  A  grotesque  result  of  this  is  that  there  is 
always  a  demand,  especially  in  France,  for  infected 
nurses,  because  the  doctor,  when  he  knows  the  child  to 
be  infected,  feels  that  he  is  committing  a  crime  in  not 
warning  the  nurse;  and  the  only  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty is  to  find  a  nurse  who  is  already  infected  and  has 
nothing  more  to  fear.  How  little  the  conscience  of  the 
family  is  to  be  depended  on  when  the  interests  of  a  be- 
loved child  are  in  the  scale  against  a  mere  cold  duty  to 
a  domestic  servant,  has  been  well  shown  by  Brieux 
in  the  second  act  of  his  play.  But  indeed  anyone 
who  will  take  the  trouble  to  read  the  treatise  of  Four- 
nier,  or  the  lectures  of  Duclaux,  or,  in  English,  the 
chapters  in  which  Havelock  Ellis  has  dealt  with  this 
subject,  will  need  no  further  instruction  to  convince 


xlviii  Preface 

him  that  no  play  ever  written  was  more  needed  than 
Les  Avaries. 

It  must  be  added  that  a  startling  change  in  the  ur- 
gency of  the  question  has  been  produced  by  recent  ad- 
vances in  pathology.  Briefly  stated,  the  facts  of  the 
change  are  as  follows.  In  the  boyhood  of  those  of  us 
who  are  now  of  middle  age,  the  diseases  in  question  were 
known  as  mainly  of  two  kinds.  One,  admittedly  very 
common,  was  considered  transient,  easily  curable,  harm- 
less to  future  generations,  and,  to  everyone  but  the 
sufferer,  dismissible  as  a  ludicrous  incident.  The  other 
was  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  formidable  scourges  of 
mankind,  capable  at  its  worst  of  hideous  disfigurement 
and  ruinous  hereditary  transmission,  but  not  at  all  so 
common  as  the  more  trifling  ailment,  and  alleged  by  some 
authorities  to  be  dying  out  like  typhus  or  plague.  That  is 
the  belief  still  entertained  by  the  elderly  section  of  the 
medical  profession  and  those  whom  it  has  instructed. 

This  easy-going  estimate  of  the  situation  was  alarm- 
ingly upset  in  1879  by  Neisser's  investigation  of  the  sup- 
posedly trivial  disease,  which  he  associated  with  a  ma- 
lignant micro-organism  called  the  gonococcus.  The 
physicians  who  still  ridicule  its  gravity  are  now  con- 
fronted by  an  agitation  led  by  medical  women  and  pro- 
fessional nurses,  who  cite  a  formidable  array  of  author- 
ities for  their  statements  that  it  is  the  commonest  cause 
of  blindness,  and  that  it  is  transmitted  from  father  to 
mother,  from  mother  to  child,  from  child  to  nurse,  pro- 
ducing evils  from  which  the  individual  attacked  never 
gets  securely  free.  If  half  the  scientific  evidence  be 
true,  a  marriage  contracted  by  a  person  actively  affected 
in  either  way  is  perhaps  the  worst  crime  that  can  be 
committed  with  legal  impunity  in  a  civilized  community. 
The  danger  of  becoming  the  victim  of  such  a  crime  is 
the  worst  danger  that  lurks  in  marriage  for  men  and 
women,  and  in  domestic  service  for  nurses. 


Preface  xlix 

Stupid  people  who  are  forced  by  these  facts  to  admit 
that  the  simple  taboo  which  forbids  the  subject  to  be 
mentioned  at  all  is  ruinous,  still  fall  back  on  the  plea 
that  though  the  public  ought  to  be  warned,  the  theatre 
is  not  the  proper  place  for  the  warning.  When  asked 
"  What,  then  is  the  proper  place  ?  "  they  plead  that  the 
proper  place  is  out  of  hearing  of  the  general  public :  that 
is,  not  in  a  school,  not  in  a  church,  not  in  a  newspaper, 
not  in  a  public  meeting,  but  in  medical  text-books  which 
are  read  only  by  medical  students.  This,  of  course,  is 
the  taboo  over  again,  only  sufficiently  ashamed  of  itself 
to  resort  to  subterfuge.  The  commonsense  of  the  matter 
is  that  a  public  danger  needs  a  public  warning,  and  the 
more  public  the  place  the  more  effective  the  warning. 

Why  the  Unmentionable  must  be  Mentioned 
on  the  Stage 

But  beyond  this  general  consideration  there  is  a  spe- 
cial need  for  the  warning  in  the  theatre.  The  best 
friends  of  the  theatre  cannot  deny,  and  need  not  seek 
to  deny,  that  a  considerable  proportion  of  our  theatrical 
entertainments  stimulate  the  sexual  instincts  of  the  spec- 
tators. Indeed  this  is  so  commonly  the  case  that  a  play 
which  contains  no  sexual  appeal  is  quite  openly  and  com- 
monly written  of,  even  by  professional  critics  of  high 
standing,  as  being  "  undramatic,"  or  "  not  a  play  at  all." 
This  is  the  basis  of  the  prejudice  against  the  theatre 
shown  by  that  section  of  English  society  in  which  sex  is 
regarded  as  original  sin,  and  the  theatre,  consequently, 
as  the  gate  of  hell.  The  prejudice  is  thoughtless:  sex  is 
a  necessary  and  healthy  instinct ;  and  its  nurture  and 
education  is  one  of  the  most  important  uses  of  all  art; 
and,  for  the  present  at  all  events,  the  chief  use  of  the 
theatre. 

Now  it  may  be  an  open  question  whether  the  theatre 


1  Preface 

has  proved  itself  worthy  of  being  entrusted  with  so 
serious  a  function.  I  can  conceive  a  community  passing 
a  law  forbidding  dramatic  authors  to  deal  with  sex  as  a 
motive  at  all.  Although  such  a  law  would  consign  the 
great  bulk  of  existing  dramatic  literature  to  the  waste- 
paper  basket,  it  would  neither  destroy  it  wholly  nor 
paralyze  all  future  playwrights.  The  bowdlerization  of 
Moliere  and  Shakespear  on  the  basis  of  such  a  law 
would  leave  a  surprising  quantity  of  their  work  intact. 
The  novels  of  Dickens  and  his  contemporaries  are  before 
us  to  prove  how  independent  the  imaginative  writer  is 
of  the  theme  so  often  assumed  to  be  indispensable  in 
fiction.  The  works  in  which  it  is  dragged  in  by  the  ears 
on  this  false  assumption  are  far  more  numerous  than  the 
tales  and  plays  —  Manon  Lescaut  is  an  example  —  of 
which  it  forms  the  entire  substance.  Just  as  the  Euro- 
pean dramatist  is  able  to  write  plays  without  introducing 
an  accouchement,  which  is  regarded  as  indispensable  in 
all  sympathetic  Chinese  plays,  he  can,  if  he  is  put  to 
it,  dispense  with  any  theme  that  law  or  custom  could 
conceivably  forbid,  and  still  find  himself  rich  in  dra- 
matic material.  Let  us  grant  therefore  that  love  might 
be  ruled  out  by  a  written  law  as  effectually  as  cholera  is 
ruled  out  by  an  unwritten  one  without  utterly  ruining  the 
theatre. 

Still,  it  is  none  the  less  beyond  all  question  by  any 
reasonable  and  thoughtful  person  that  if  we  tolerate  any 
subject  on  the  stage  we  must  not  tolerate  it  by  halves. 
It  may  be  questioned  whether  we  should  allow  war  on 
the  stage ;  but  it  cannot  sanely  be  questioned  that,  if  we 
do,  we  must  allow  its  horrors  to  be  represented  as  well 
as  its  glories.  Destruction  and  murder,  pestilence  and 
famine,  demoralization  and  cruelty,  robbery  and  job- 
bery, must  be  allowed  to  contend  with  patriotism  and 
military  heroism  on  the  boards  as  they  do  in  actual  war: 
otherwise  the  stage  might  inflame  national  hatreds  and 


Preface  li 

lead  to  their  gratification  with  a  recklessness  that  would 
make  a  cockpit  of  Europe.  Again,  if  unscrupulous 
authors  are  to  be  allowed  to  make  the  stage  a  parade  of 
champagne  bottles,  syphons,  and  tantaluses,  scrupulous 
ones  must  be  allowed  to  write  such  plays  as  L'Assommoir, 
which  has,  as  a  matter  of  simple  fact,  effectively  deterred 
many  young  men  from  drunkenness.  Nobody  disputes 
the  reasonableness  of  this  freedom  to  present  both  sides. 
But  when  we  come  to  sex,  the  taboo  steps  in,  with  the 
result  that  all  the  allurements  of  sex  may  be  exhibited 
on  the  stage  heightened  by  every  artifice  that  the  imag- 
ination of  the  voluptuary  can  devise,  but  not  one  of  its 
dangers  and  penalties.  You  may  exhibit  seduction  on 
the  stage,  but  you  must  not  even  mention  illegitimate 
conception  and  criminal  abortion.  We  may,  and  do, 
parade  prostitution  to  the  point  of  intoxicating  every 
young  person  in  the  theatre;  yet  no  young  person  may 
hear  a  word  as  to  the  diseases  that  follow  prostitution 
and  avenge  the  prostitute  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion of  them  that  buy  her.  Our  shops  and  business 
offices  are  full  of  young  men  living  in  lonely  lodgings, 
whose  only  artistic  recreation  is  the  theatre.  In  the 
theatre  we  practise  upon  them  every  art  that  can  make 
their  loneliness  intolerable  and  heighten  the  charm  of  the 
bait  in  the  snares  of  the  street  as  they  go  home.  But 
when  a  dramatist  is  enlightened  enough  to  understand 
the  danger,  and  sympathetic  enough  to  come  to  the  rescue 
with  a  play  to  expose  the  snare  and  warn  the  victim, 
we  forbid  the  manager  to  perform  it  on  pain  of  ruin,  and 
denounce  the  author  as  a  corrupter  of  morals.  One 
hardly  knows  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  at  such  perverse 
stupidity. 


lii  Preface 

Brieux  and  Voltaire 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  when  Brieux  wrote  Les 
Avaries  (Damaged  Goods)  his  experience  with  it  re- 
called in  one  particular  that  of  Voltaire. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Voltaire,  whose  religious 
opinions  were  almost  exactly  those  of  most  English  Non- 
conformists to-day,  took  refuge  from  the  Established 
Church  of  France  near  Geneva,  the  city  of  Calvin,  where 
he  established  himself  as  the  first  and  the  greatest  of 
modern  Nonconformist  philanthropists.  The  Genevese 
ministers  found  his  theology  so  much  to  their  taste  that 
they  were  prevented  from  becoming  open  Voltaireans 
only  by  the  scandal  he  gave  by  his  ridicule  of  the  current 
Genevese  idolatry  of  the  Bible,  from  which  he  was  as 
free  as  any  of  our  prominent  Baptists  and  Congrega- 
tionalists.  In  the  same  way,  when  Brieux,  having  had 
his  Les  Avaries  condemned  by  the  now  extinct  French 
censorship,  paid  a  visit  to  Switzerland,  he  was  invited 
by  a  Swiss  minister  to  read  the  play  from  the  pulpit; 
and  though  the  reading  actually  took  place  in  a  secular 
building,  it  was  at  the  invitation  and  under  the  auspices 
of  the  minister.  The  minister  knew  what  the  Censor  did 
not  know:  that  what  Brieux  says  in  Les  Avaries  needs 
saying.  The  minister  believed  that  when  a  thing  needs 
saying,  a  man  is  in  due  course  inspired  to  say  it,  and  that 
such  inspiration  gives  him  a  divine  right  to  be  heard. 
And  this  appears  to  be  the  simple  truth  of  the  matter 
in  terms  of  the  minister's  divinity.  For  most  certainly 
Brieux  had  every  worldly  inducement  to  refrain  from 
writing  this  play,  and  no  motive  for  disregarding  these 
inducements  except  the  motive  that  made  Luther  tear  up 
the  Pope's  Bull,  and  Mahomet  tell  the  idolatrous  Arabs 
of  Mecca  that  they  were  worshipping  stones. 

The  reader  will  now  understand  why  these  three  great 
plays  have  forced  themselves  upon  us  in  England  as  they 


Preface  liii 

forced  themselves  upon  Brieux's  own  countrymen.  Just 
as  Brieux  had  to  write  them,  cost  what  it  might,  so  we 
have  had  to  translate  them  and  perform  them  and  finally 
publish  them  for  those  to  read  who  are  out  of  reach  of 
the  theatre.  The  evils  they  deal  with  are  as  rampant  in 
England  and  America  as  they  are  in  France.  The  go- 
nococcus  is  not  an  exclusively  French  microbe:  the  pos- 
sibility of  sterilizing  marriage  is  not  bounded  by  the 
Channel,  the  Rhine,  or  the  Alps.  The  furious  revolt  of 
poor  women  against  bringing  into  the  world  more  mouths 
to  eat  the  bread  that  is  already  insufficient  for  their  first 
born,  rages  with  us  exactly  as  it  does  in  the  final  scene 
of  Maternity.  Therefore  these  three  plays  are  given 
to  the  English  speaking  peoples  first.  There  are  others 
to  follow  of  like  importance  to  us.  And  there  are  some, 
like  La  Francaise,  which  we  may  read  more  lightheart- 
edly  when  we  have  learnt  the  lesson  of  the  rest.  In  La 
Francaise  an  American  (who  might  just  as  well  be  an 
Englishman)  has  acquired  his  ideas  of  France  and 
French  life,  not  from  the  plays  of  Brieux,  but  from  the 
conventional  plays  and  romances  which  have  only  one 
theme,  —  adultery.  Visiting  France,  he  is  received  as  a 
friend  in  an  ordinary  respectable  French  household, 
where  he  conceives  himself  obliged,  as  a  gallant  man  of 
the  world,  to  invite  his  hostess  to  commit  with  him  the 
adultery  which  he  imagines  to  be  a  matter  of  course  in 
every  French  menage.  The  ignominious  failure  of  his 
enterprise  makes  it  much  better  comedy  than  his  success 
would  have  made  it  in  an  ordinary  fashionable  play. 

As  Good  Fish  in  the  Sea 

The  total  number  of  plays  produced  by  Brieux  up  to 
the  date  on  which  I  write  these  lines  is  fifteen.  The 
earliest  dates  as  far  back  as  1890.  It  is  therefore  high 
time  for  us  to  begin  to  read  him,  as  we  have  already 


liv  Preface 

begun  to  act  him.  The  most  pitiful  sort  of  ignorance  is 
ignorance  of  the  few  great  men  who  are  men  of  our  own 
time.  Most  of  us  die  without  having  heard  of  those 
contemporaries  of  ours,  for  our  opportunities  of  seeing 
and  applauding  whom  posterity  will  envy  us.  Imagine 
meeting  the  ghost  of  an  Elizabethan  cockney  in  heaven, 
and,  on  asking  him  eagerly  what  Shakespear  was  like, 
being  told  either  that  the  cockney  had  never  heard  of 
Shakespear,  or  knew  of  him  vaguely  as  an  objectionable 
writer  of  plays  full  of  regrettable  errors  of  taste.  To 
save  our  own  ghosts  from  disgracing  themselves  in  this 
manner  when  they  are  asked  about  Brieux,  is  one  of  the 
secondary  uses  of  this  first  instalment  of  his  works  in 
English.  G.  B.  S. 

PARKNASILLA.  AND  ATOT  ST.  LAWRENCE. 
1900. 


MATERNITY 

A   PLAY    IN    THREE   ACTS 
BY  BRIEUX 

Translated  from  the  French 
BY  MRS.   BERNARD  SHAW 


Cast  of  the  original  production  before  the  Stage 
Society  at  the  King's  Hall,  London,  on  April  8,  9  and 
10,  1906. 

LUCIE  BRIGNAC Suzanne  Sheldon 

JULIEN  BRIGNAC : Dennis  Eadie 

LIORET Robert  Grey 

ANNETTE Muriel  Ashwynne 

CATHERINE Betty  Castle 

MME.  BERNIN Lilian  M.  Revell 

PIERRE  POIRET Fred  Grove 

LAURENT Charles   Dodsworth 

LE  SOUS-!NTENDANT Michael  Sherbrooke 

LE  COLONEL Frank  H.  Denton 

M.  CHEVILLOT Vincent  Sternroyd 

JACQUES  POIRET Trevor  Lowe 

MME.  CHEVILLOT Charles  Maltby 

LE  PRESIDENT Kenyon  Musgrave 

L'AvocAT C.  Herbert  Hewetson 

MME.  THOMAS Claire  Greet 

MARIE  GAUBERT Italia  Conti 

TUPIN Blake  Adams 

MME.  TUPIN Eily  Malyon 

LE  PROCUREUR  ....  . .  Charles  A.  Dovan 


ACT    I 

Brignac's  drawing-room.  Doors  right,  left,  and  at  the 
back.  Furniture  of  a  government  official.  When  the 
curtain  rises  Lucie,  a  woman  of  about  thirty,  is  alone. 
Brignac,  a  man  of  thirty-eight,  opens  a  door  outside  and 
calls  gaily  from  the  anteroom. 

BRIGNAC.  Here  I  am.  [He  takes  off  his  cloak,  gives 
it  to  a  maid-servant,  and  enters]. 

L,vcns[gaily]     Good-morning,  sous-prefet. 

BRIGNAC  [He  is  in  the  uniform  of  a  sous-prefet.  A 
tunic  or  dolman,  with  simple  embroidery  and  two  rows 
of  buttons;  a  cap  with  an  embroidered  band,  a  sword 
with  a  mother-o'-pearl  handle  and  a  silver-plated  sheath. 
His  belt  is  of  silk;  his  trousers  blue  with  a  silver  stripe; 
and  he  wears  a  black  cravat.  He  comes  forward,  taking 
off  his  sword  and  belt  during  the  following  conversation. 
He  is  finishing  a  large  cigar]  Have  you  been  bored  all 
alone  ? 

LUCIE.  With  three  children  one  has  n't  time  to  be 
bored. 

BRIGNAC  [taking  his  sword  into  the  anteroom]  By 
Jove,  no ! 

LUCIE.    Well,  how  did  the  luncheon  go  off? 

BRIGNAC  [throwing  away  his  cigar-end]  Very  well. 
I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  minute.  [Going  to  the  door 
to  the  right  and  calling  through]  Has  M.  Mouton  come? 

A  VOICE  [from  outside]  Yes,  monsieur  le  sous-prefet. 
Shall  I  tell  him  he  'a  wanted  ? 

3 


4  Maternity  Act  I 

BRIGNAC.  No.  Bring  me  my  letters.  [He  closes  the 
door  and  comes  back]  Shall  I  never  catch  that  fellow  out? 

LUCIE.    Why  do  you  want  to? 

BRIGNAC.  I  want  to  get  rid  of  him,  of  course,  and  get 
a  young  chap.  An  unmarried  man  would  n't  ask  half  the 
salary  I  give  this  one. 

A  clerk  enters  bringing  letters. 

CLERK.    The  letters,  monsieur  le  sous-prefet. 

BRIGNAC.    All  right. 

The  clerk  goes  out.  Brignac  glances  at  the  addresses 
and  sorts  the  letters  into  several  piles  without  opening 
the  envelopes. 

LUCIE.    That  little  ceremony  always  amuses  me. 

BRIGNAC.     What  ceremony?     Sorting  my  letters? 

LUCIE.    Without  opening  them. 

BRIGNAC.    I  know  what 's  inside  by  looking  at  them. 

LUCIE.    Nonsense ! 

BRIGNAC.  Don't  you  believe  it  ?  Well,  look.  Here  's 
one  from  the  mayor  of  St.  Sauveur.  Something  he  asks 
me  to  forward  to  the  prefet.  [He  opens  it  and  hands  the 
letter  to  his  wife,  who  does  not  take  it~\  There ! 

LUCIE.    Why  does  n't  he  send  it  direct  to  the  prefet? 

BRIGNAC.    What  would  be  the  use  of  us  then? 

LUCIE   [laughing]     That 's  true. 

BRIGNAC.  Now  I  suppose  you  '11  make  some  more 
jokes  about  sous-prefets  and  their  work.  It 's  easy,  and 
not  particularly  clever.  Perhaps  some  of  us  don't  take 
our  jobs  very  seriously,  but  I  'm  not  like  that.  If  we 
are  useless,  our  business  is  to  make  ourselves  indispens- 
able. Just  take  to-day  for  example  and  see  if  I  'm  not 
busy  enough.  This  morning  I  signed  thirty  documents; 
afterwards  I  went  to  the  meeting  of  the  Council  of  Re- 
vision.1 Then  came  this  luncheon  of  the  mayor's  to  all 
these  gentlemen.  Now  I  shall  have  an  hour  of  office- 

1  The  Board  appointed  to  inspect  conscripts,  and  see  if  they  are  fit 
for  military  service. —  Note  by  the  Translator. 


Act  I  Maternity  5 

work,  and  then  I  shall  have  to  go  and  meet  our  guests 
and  bring  them  here,  to  our  own  dinner.  [Pause]  Oh ! 
arid  I  forgot  —  after  dinner  there  will  be  that  reception 
at  the  Club  that  they  put  off  to  suit  me.  That 's  a  fairly 
full  official  day,  is  n't  it  ? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

BRIGNAC.  We  shall  only  have  part  of  the  Committee 
at  dinner.  Some  of  the  members  have  refused.  [With 
interest]  Hullo !  I  did  n't  see  this.  A  letter  from  the 
Minister  of  the  Interior. 

LUCIE.    Perhaps  it 's  your  promotion. 

BRIGNAC    [opening  the  letter]      One  never  knows  — 
No,  it 's  a  circular  [pause]  upon  the  decline  of  the  popu- 
lation.    [He  runs  his  eye  through  the  paper]     Most  im- 
portant.    [He  goes  to  the  door  on  the  right]     M.  Lioret! 
A  clerk  comes  in. 

CLERK.     Yes,  monsieur  le  sous-prefet? 

BRIGNAC  [giving  him  papers]  Give  that  to  M. 
Mouton.  It  must  be  done  by  five  o'clock,  and  well  done. 
This  for  M.  Lamblin  —  M.  Rouge  —  And  put  this  upon 
my  desk.  I  will  see  to  it  myself  and  give  it  the  attention 
it  requires. 

The  clerk  goes  out. 

LUCIE.     Perhaps  it 's  not  worth  attention. 

BRIGNAC.  It  needs  an  acknowledgment,  anyway ;  and 
the  terms  used  in  the  original  must  be  most  carefully 
reproduced  in  the  acknowledgment. 

LUCIE.    Now  tell  me  how  the  luncheon  went  off. 

BRIGNAC.  I  have  told  you.  It  went  off  very  well. 
Too  well.  The  mayor  wanted  to  be  even  with  us.  All  the 
same,  our  dinner  to-night  will  be  better.  [He  takes  a 
cigar  out  of  his  pocket]  I  brought  away  a  cigar  to  show 
it  to  you.  Are  ours  as  big? 

LUCIE.    Pretty  much  the  same. 

BRIGNAC.  He  does  n't  give  you  cigars  like  that  at  his 
big  receptions.  There  's  the  menu. 


6  Maternity  Act  1 

LUCIE  [glancing  at  it~\     Oh !    I  say ! 

BRIONAC.    The  champagne  was  decanted ! 

LUCIE.  Well,  we  '11  have  ours  decanted.  [Brightly"] 
Only,  you  know,  it  '11  cost  money.  We  should  n't  have 
much  left  if  we  had  to  give  many  dinners  to  Councils  of 
Revision. 

BRIGNAC.  Don't  worry  about  that.  You  know  very 
well  that  when  Balureau  gets  back  into  power  he  '11  have 
us  out  of  this  dead-alive  Chateauneuf,  and  give  us  a 
step  up. 

LUCIE.    Yes ;   but  will  he  get  back  into  power  ? 

BRIGNAC.    Why  should  n't  he  ? 

LUCIE.    He  was  in  such  a  short  time. 

BRIGNAC.  Precisely.  They  had  n't  time  to  find  him 
out. 

LUCIE  [laughing]     If  he  heard  you ! 

BRIGNAC.  You  misunderstand  me.  I  have  the  greatest 
respect  for  — 

LUCIE  [interrupting]  I  know,  I  know.  I  was  only 
joking. 

BRIGNAC.  You  're  always  worrying  about  the  future ; 
now  what  makes  me  the  man  I  am  is  my  persistent  confi- 
dence in  the  future.  If  Balureau  does  n't  get  into  office 
again  we  '11  stay  quietly  at  Chateauneuf,  that 's  all.  You 
can't  complain,  as  you  were  born  here. 

LUCIE.    But  it 's  you  who  complain. 

BRIGNAC.  I  complain  of  the  want  of  spirit  in  the 
people.  I  complain  that  I  cannot  get  them  to  love  and 
respect  our  political  institutions.  I  complain  above  all  of 
the  society  of  Chateauneuf:  a  set  of  officials  entertain- 
ing one  another. 

LUCIE.  Society  in  Chateauneuf  does  n't  open  its  arms 
to  us,  certainly. 

BRIGNAC.    It  does  n't  think  us  important  enough. 

LUCIE.  To  have  a  larger  acquaintance  we  ought  to 
entertain  the  commercial  people.  You  won't  do  that. 


Act  I  Maternity  7 

BRIGNAC.  I  have  to  consider  the  dignity  of  my 
position. 

LUCIE.  As  you  often  say,  we  are  in  the  enemy's 
camp. 

BRIGNAC.  That 's  true.  But  the  fact  that  people  hate 
me  shows  that  I  am  a  person  of  some  importance.  We 
must  look  out  for  the  unexpected.  How  do  you  know 
some  great  opportunity  won't  come  in  my  way  to-morrow, 
or  next  month,  or  in  six  months  ?  An  opportunity  to  dis- 
tinguish myself  and  force  the  people  in  Paris  to  pay 
attention  to  me. 

LUCIE.  Yes ;  you  've  been  waiting  for  that  oppor- 
tunity for  eleven  years. 

BRIGNAC.    Obviously  then  it  is  so  much  the  nearer. 

LUCIE.    And  what  will  it  be? 

BRIGNAC.     Some  conflict,  some  incident  —  trouble. 

LUCIE.     Trouble  at  Chateauneuf  ? 

BRIGNAC.  I  'm  quite  aware  that  Chateauneuf  is  most 
confoundedly  peaceable.  One  gets  no  chance.  I  count 
more  upon  Balureau  than  on  anything  else.  [Pause]  Is 
Annette  with  her  friend  Gabrielle? 

LUCIE.    No. 

BRIGNAC.     But  this  is  Tuesday. 

LUCIE.    It 's  not  time  for  her  to  go  yet. 

BRIGNAC.    Yes,  but  if  she  puts  it  off  till  too  late. 

LUCIE.  I  've  wanted  for  some  time  to  speak  to  you 
about  Annette.  Don't  you  think  she  goes  to  the  Bernins 
a  little  too  often? 

BRIGNAC.  Not  at  all.  They  're  very  influential  people 
and  may  be  useful  to  me.  Call  her.  [He  goes  to  the 
door  to  the  left  and  calls  himself]  Annette!  [Coming 
back]  Annette  goes  three  times  a  week  to  practise  with 
Mademoiselle  Bernin,  who  goes  everywhere.  That 's  an 
excellent  thing  for  us,  and  may  be  of  consequence.  [An- 
nette comes  in]  Annette,  don't  forget  how  late  it  is. 
It 's  time  you  were  with  your  friend. 


8  Maternity  Act  I 

ANNETTE  [going  out]  Yes,  yes.  I  '11  go  and  put  on 
my  hat. 

LUCIE  [to  Brignac]  They  want  Annette  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  them  in  the  country.  Ought  we  to  let  her  ? 

BRIONAC.  Why  not?  She  wants  to  go.  You  know 
how  fond  she  is  of  Gabrielle. 

LUCIE.    Yes ;  but  Gabrielle  has  a  brother. 

BRIGNAC.  Young  Jacques.  But  he  's  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, my  dear. 

LUCIE.    Is  he? 

BRIGNAC.  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  [Annette  comes  in 
from  the  left]  Make  haste,  Annette. 

LUCIE.    What  does  it  matter  if  she  's  five  minutes  late? 

ANNETTE.    No  —  no  —    Where  is  my  music  ? 

LUCIE.  You  look  quite  upset.  Would  you  rather 
not  go? 

ANNETTE.  Yes,  yes,  I  '11  go  —  Good-bye.  [She 
hurries  off,  forgetting  her  music], 

LUCIE  [calling']  Your  music !  [She  holds  out  the 
music-case]. 

ANNETTE.  Oh,  thank  you.  Good-bye.  [She  goes 
out]. 

LUCIE.  Don't  you  think  Annette  has  been  a  little  de- 
pressed lately? 

BRIGNAC.  Eh?  Yes  —  no  —  has  she?  Have  you 
found  a  new  parlor-maid? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

BRIGNAC.  There,  you  see!  You  were  worrying  about 
that. 

LUCIE.  I  had  good  reason  to  worry.  I  've  been  with- 
out a  parlor-maid  for  a  week.  I  liked  a  girl  who  came 
yesterday  very  much ;  but  she  would  n't  take  the  place. 

BRIGNAC.    Why  not? 

LUCIE.    She  said  there  were  too  many  children  here. 

BRIGNAC.     Too  many  children !    Three ! 

LUCIE.    Yes:   but  the  eldest  is  three  years  old  and  the 
youngest  two  months. 


Act  I  Maternity  9 

BRIGNAC.    There  's  a  nurse. 

LUCIE.    I  told  her  that,  of  course. 

BRIGNAC.  Well,  I  declare !  And  when  you  consider 
that  it  meant  coming  to  the  sous-prefet ! 

LUCIE.     I  suppose  she  's  not  impressed  by  titles. 

BRIGNAC.    And  what  about  the  one  you  have  engaged  ? 

LUCIE.    She  's  elderly.    Perhaps  she  '11  be  steady. 

BRIGNAC.   Yes,  and  have  other  vices.    Still  — 

LUCIE.  The  unhappy  woman  has  two  children  out  at 
nurse,  and  two  older  ones  at  Bordeaux.  Her  husband 
deserted  her. 

BRIGNAC.  Too  bad  of  Celine  to  force  us  to  turn  her 
out  of  doors. 

LUCIE.  Her  conduct  was  bad,  certainly.  All  the 
same  — 

BRIGNAC.  Oh,  it  was  not  her  conduct!  She  might 
have  conducted  herself  ten  times  worse  if  only  she  had 
had  the  sense  to  keep  up  appearances.  Outside  her  duty 
to  me  her  life  was  her  own.  But  we  have  to  draw  the 
line  at  a  confinement  in  the  house.  You  admit  that,  don't 
you?  [A  pause.  Lucie  does  not  answer]  It  was  get- 
ting quite  unmistakable  —  you  know  it  was.  Those 
wretched  grocer's  boys  are  a  perfect  scourge  to  decent 
houses.  [He  takes  up  a  paper]  This  circular  is 
admirable. 

LUCIE.    Is  it? 

BRIGNAC.  And  of  the  greatest  importance.  Such  style, 
too.  Listen.  [He  reads]  "Our  race  is  diminishing! 
Such  a  state  of  affairs  demands  the  instant  attention  of 
the  authorities.  The  Legislature  must  strenuously  en- 
deavor to  devise  remedial  measures  against  the  disastrous 
phenomenon  now  making  itself  manifest  in  our  midst." 
The  Minister  of  the  Interior  has  done  this  very  well. 
The  end  is  really  fine  —  quite  touching.  Listen.  "  Truth 
will  triumph:  reason  will  prevail:  the  noble  sentiment 
of  nationality  and  the  divine  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  will 


10  Maternity  Act  I 

bear  us  on  to  victory.  We  who  know  the  splendid  re- 
cuperative power  of  our  valiant  French  race  look  forward 
with  confidence  and  security  to  the  magnificent  moral 
regeneration  of  this  great  and  ancient  people."  [He 
looks  at  his  wife']. 

LUCIE.    It 's  well  written,  certainly. 

BRIONAC  [continuing  to  read]  "  Let  each  one,  in  his 
own  sphere  of  action  and  influence,  work  with  word  and 
pen  to  point  out  the  peril  and  urge  the  immediate  neces- 
sity of  a  remedy.  Committees  must  be  formed  all  over 
France  to  evolve  schemes  and  promote  measures  by  which 
the  birth-rate  may  be  raised." 

LUCIE.    Does  it  suggest  any  scheme  ? 

BRIGNAC.  Yes.  The  rest  of  the  circular  is  full  of  the 
ways  and  means.  I  shall  read  it  aloud  this  evening. 

LUCIE.    This  evening! 

BRIGNAC.  Yes.  [He  goes  to  the  right-hand  door  and 
calls]  Monsieur  Lioret ! 

CLERK  [coming  in]     Monsieur  le  sous-prefet. 

BRIGNAC.  Make  me  two  copies  of  this  circular  your- 
self; you  will  understand  its  great  importance.  And 
bring  the  original  back  yourself  and  place  it  upon  this 
table. 

CLERK.    Yes,  monsieur  le  sous-prefet.     [He  goes  out]. 

BRIGNAC  [returning  to  Lucie]  The  covering  letter 
from  my  official  superior  ends  with  these  words :  "  Have 
the  goodness,  M.  le  sous-prefet,  to  send  me  at  once  a  sta- 
tistical schedule  of  all  committees  or  associations  of  this 
nature  at  present  existing  in  your  district,  and  let  me 
know  what  measures  you  think  of  taking  in  response  to 
the  desiderata  of  the  Government."  Well,  I  shall  take 
advantage  of  the  dinner  we  give  to-night  to  the  members 
of  the  Council  of  Revision  to  set  on  foot  some  associa- 
tions of  the  sort,  and  then  I  can  write  up  to  the  authori- 
ties, "  There  were  no  associations:  7  created  them!  " 

LUCIE.    But  is  the  dinner  a  suitable  — 


Act  I  Maternity  11 

BRIGNAC.  Listen  to  me.  This  morning  there  was  a 
Council  of  Revision  at  Chateauneuf. 

LUCIE.     Yes. 

BRIGNAC.  The  mayor  invited  the  members  to  luncheon 
and  we  have  invited  them  to  dinner. 

LUCIE.    Well? 

BRIGNAC.  The  Council  of  Revision  is  composed  of  a 
Councillor  to  the  Prefecture,  a  general  Councillor,  a  dis- 
trict Councillor  —  I  leave  out  the  doctor  —  and  the 
mayors  of  the  communes  concerned  —  the  mayors  of  the 
communes  concerned.  I  shall  profit  by  the  chance  of 
having  them  all  together  after  dinner  to-night  —  after  a 
dinner  where  the  champagne  will  be  decanted,  mind  you 
—  to  impress  them  with  my  own  enthusiasm  and  convic- 
tion. They  shall  create  local  committees,  and  I  shall 
presently  announce  the  formation  of  those  committees  to 
the  authorities.  So  even  if  Balureau  does  n't  get  into 
power,  I  shall  sooner  or  later  force  the  Minister  to  say, 
"  But  why  don't  we  give  a  man  like  Brignac  a  really 
active  post?"  This  is  a  first-rate  opening  for  us:  I 
saw  it  at  a  glance.  After  dinner  I  shall  show  them  my 
diagram.  You  must  make  my  office  into  a  cloak-room, 
and  — 

LUCIE  [interrupting]  Why?  There's  room  in  the 
hall. 

BRIGNAC.  I  can't  put  the  diagram  in  the  hall,  and  I 
want  an  excuse  for  bringing  them  all  through  the  office. 
Some  day  the  Colonel  may  meet  the  Minister  of  the  In- 
terior and  say  to  him:  "  I  saw  in  the  sous-prefecture  at 
Chateauneuf  "  — 

LUCIE  [interrupting  again]     All  right.    As  you  like. 

BRIGNAC.  You  trust  to  me.  You  don't  understand 
anything  about  it.  You  did  n't  even  know  how  a  Council 
of  Revision  was  made  up,  —  you,  the  wife  of  a  sous- 
prefet.  And  yet  every  year  we  give  them  a  dinner.  And 
we  've  been  married  four  years. 


12  Maternity  Act  I 

LUCIE  [gently  and  pleasantly']  Now  think  for  a  min- 
ute. We  've  been  married  four  years,  that 's  true.  But 
this  time  three  years  was  just  after  Edmee  was  born: 
two  years  ago  I  was  expecting  little  Louise;  and  last 
year  after  weaning  her  I  was  ill.  Remember  too  that  if 
I  had  nursed  the  last  one  myself  I  could  not  be  at  dinner 
to-night,  as  she  is  only  two  months  old. 

BRIONAC.     You  complain  of  that? 

LUCIE  [laughing]  No:  but  I  am  glad  to  be  having  a 
holiday. 

BRIGNAC  [gaily]  You  know  what  I  said:  as  long  as 
we  have  n't  a  boy  — 

LUCIE  [brightly]  We  ought  to  have  a  trip  to  Switzer- 
land first. 

BRIGNAC.  No,  no,  no.  We  have  only  girls :  I  want  a 
boy. 

LUCIE  [laughing]     Is  it  the  Minister's  circular  that  — 

BRIGNAC.     No,  it  is  not  the  Minister's  circular. 

LUCIE.    Then  let  me  have  time  to  breathe. 

BRIGNAC.    You  can  breathe  afterwards. 

LUCIE.    Before. 

BRIGNAC.    After. 

LUCIE.    Would  n't  you  rather  have  a  holiday  ? 

BRIGNAC.     No. 

LUCIE  [gently]  Listen,  Julien,  since  we  're  talking 
about  this.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  —  I  have  n't  had  much 
leisure  since  our  marriage.  We  Ve  not  been  able  to  take 
advantage  of  a  single  one  of  your  holidays.  And  if  you 
don't  agree  to  let —  [tenderly]  Maurice  —  wait  another 
year  it  will  be  the  same  thing  this  time.  [Smiling]  I 
really  have  a  right  to  a  little  rest.  Consider.  We  've 
not  had  any  time  to  know  one  another,  or  to  love  one 
another.  Besides,  remember  that  we  already  have  to 
find  dowries  for  three  girls. 

BRIGNAC.    I  tell  you  this  is  going  to  be  a  boy. 

LUCIE.    A  boy  is  expensive. 


Act  I  Maternity  13 

BRIGNAC.    We  are  going  to  be  rich. 

LUCIE.    How  ? 

BRIGNAC.  Luck  may  come  in  several  ways.  I  may 
stay  in  the  Civil  Service  and  get  promoted  quickly.  I 
may  go  back  to  the  Bar:  I  was  a  fairly  successful  bar- 
rister once.  I  may  have  some  unexpected  stroke  of  luck. 
Anyway,  I  'm  certain  we  shall  be  rich.  [Smiling]  After 
all,  it 's  not  much  good  you  're  saying  no,  if  I  say  yes. 

LUCIE  [hurt]  Evidently.  My  consent  was  asked  for 
before  I  was  given  a  husband,  but  my  consent  is  not  asked 
for  before  I  am  given  a  child. 

BRIGNAC.    Are  you  going  to  make  a  scene  ? 

LUCIE.    No.    But  all  the  same  —  this  slavery  — 

BRIGNAC.    What  ? 

LUCIE.  Yes,  slavery.  After  all  you  are  disposing 
of  my  health,  my  sufferings,  my  life  —  of  a  year  of  my 
existence,  calmly,  without  consulting  me. 

BRIGNAC.  Do  I  do  it  out  of  selfishness  ?  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  am  not  a  most  unhappy  husband  all  the  time  I 
have  a  future  mother  at  my  side  instead  of  a  loving  wife  ? 
"  A  father  is  a  man  all  the  same." 

LUCIE  [ironically]  Oh,  you  are  most  unhappy,  are  n't 
you? 

BRIGNAC.    Yes. 

LUCIE.    Rubbish ! 

BRIGNAC.    Rubbish  ? 

LUCIE.    You  evidently  take  me  for  a  fool. 

BRIGNAC.     I  don't  understand. 

LUCIE.  I  know  what  you  do  at  those  times.  Now  do 
you  understand? 

BRIGNAC.    No. 

LUCIE  [irritated]  Don't  deny  it.  You  must  see  that  I 
know  all  about  it.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  be 
silent,  as  I  have  pretended  so  far  to  know  nothing. 

BRIGNAC  [coming  off  his  high-horse]     I  assure  you  — 

LUCIE.     Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  name  of  the 


14  Maternity  Act  I 

person  you  go  to  see  over  at  Villeneuve,  while  I  am 
nursing,  or  a  "  future  mother  "  as  you  call  it? 

BRIGNAC.  If  you  're  going  to  believe  all  the  gossip 
you  hear  — 

LUCIE.     We  had  better  say  no  more  about  it. 

BRIGNAC.  I  beg  to  observe  that  it  was  not  I  who 
started  the  subject.  There,  there  —  you're  in  a  bad 
temper.  I  shall  go  and  do  some  work,  and  then  I  must 
join  those  gentlemen.  Only,  you  know,  you  're  mistaken. 

LUCIE.     Oh,  yes,  of  course. 

He  goes  out  to  the  right,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
Lucie  rings.  Catherine  comes  in. 

LUCIE.  Are  Nurse  and  Josephine  out  with  the 
children  ? 

CATHERINE.    Yes,  madame. 

LUCIE  [beaming]   Were  my  little  ones  well  and  happy? 

CATHERINE.    Oh,  yes,  madame. 

LUCIE  [sincerely]     Aren't  my  little  girls  pretty? 

CATHERINE.    Yes:   pretty  and  clever. 

LUCIE.  The  other  day  Edmee  was  talking  about  play- 
ing horses,  and  Louise  said  "  'orses  "  quite  distinctly. 
It  'B  wonderful  at  her  age. 

CATHERINE.  I  've  seen  lots  of  children,  but  I  never 
saw  such  nice  ones  before. 

LUCIE.  I  'm  so  glad.  You  're  a  good  creature, 
Catherine. 

Annette  comes  in.    She  pulls  off  her  hat,  wild  with  joy. 

ANNETTE.  Lucie !  Sister !  News !  Great  news ! 
Good  news ! 

LUCIE.     What  is  it? 

ANNETTE  [giving  her  hat  to  Catherine]  Take  this, 
Catherine,  and  go.  [She  pushes  her  out  gently]. 

LUCIE  [laughing]     Well! 

ANNETTE.  I  must  kiss  you,  kiss  you!  I  wanted  to 
kiss  the  people  in  the  street.  [She  bursts  into  a  laugh 
which  ends  in  a  sob]. 


Act  I  Maternity  15 

LUCIE.    Little  sister  Annette,  you  Ve  gone  quite  mad. 

ANNETTE.     No  —  not  mad  —  I  'm  so  happy. 

LUCIE.    What  is  it,  little  girl? 

ANNETTE  [in  tears]     I  'm  happy!    I  'm  happy! 

LUCIE.    Why,  what 's  the  matter  with  the  child? 

ANNETTE.  No,  no.  It 's  all  right  —  don't  speak  to 
me.  I  shall  soon  be  better.  It 's  nervous.  [She  laughs 
and  cries  at  the  same  time].  I  tell  you  I  'm  happy  — 
only  —  only  —  How  stupid  it  is  to  cry  like  this.  I  can't 
help  it.  [She  puts  her  arms  round  Lucie's  neck].  Oh, 
little  mother,  I  love  you  —  I  do  love  you.  [She  kisses 
Lucie:  another  little  sob].  Oh,  I  am  silly.  There  now, 
it 's  all  right  —  I 've  done.  [She  wipes  her  eyes]  There: 
now  I  'm  going  to  tell  you.  [With  great  joy  and  emo- 
tion, and  very  simply]  I  am  going  to  be  married.  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Bernin  are  coming  to  see  you  about 
it. 

LUCIE.    Why  ? 

ANNETTE.     Because  Jacques  has  told  them  to. 

LUCIE.     Jacques ! 

ANNETTE  [very  fast,  tumbling  out  the  words]  Yes,  it 
was  when  I  was  practising  with  Gabrielle.  He  had 
guessed  —  it  happened  this  way  —  practising  —  he  sings 
a  little  —  oh,  nothing  very  grand  —  once  —  [she  laughs] 
but  I  '11  tell  you  about  that  afterwards  —  it 's  because  of 
that  —  we  shall  be  married  soon.  [Fresh  tears.  Then 
she  says  gravely,  embracing  Lucy]  I  do  love  him  so,  and 
if  he  had  n't  asked  me  to  marry  him  —  You  don't 
understand  ? 

LUCIE  [laughing]     I  guess  a  little. 

ANNETTE.  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  all  about  it, 
from  the  beginning? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

ANNETTE.  I  want  to  so  much.  If  it  won't  bore  you. 
It  would  make  me  so  happy. 

LUCIE.    Go  on. 


16  Maternity  Act  I 

ANNETTE.  Well,  when  I  was  playing  duets  with 
Gabrielle  —  I  must  tell  you  that  I  began  by  detesting 
him  because  he  will  make  fun  of  everybody.  But  he  's 
most  kind,  really.  For  instance  — 

LUCIE.  Now  keep  to  the  point.  When  you  played 
duets  — 

ANNETTE.  Yes,  I  was  telling  you.  When  I  played 
duets  with  Gabrielle  he  used  to  come  and  listen  to  us. 
He  stood  behind  us  to  turn  over  the  leaves:  once  he  put 
his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  — 

LUCIE.    You  let  him  ? 

ANNETTE.  He  had  his  other  hand  on  Gabrielle's 
shoulder  —  it  would  have  been  priggish  to  say  anything. 

LUCIE.    Yes,  but  with  Gabrielle  it 's  different. 

ANNETTE.  That 's  what  I  was  going  to  say.  My 
heart  began  beating  so  —  I  got  so  red,  and  I  had  no  idea 
what  I  was  playing.  And  then,  another  time  —  he 
could  n't  see  the  music  —  he  stooped  right  down.  But 
that 's  all  nothing.  We  love  each  other,  that 's  the  whole 
thing. 

LUCIE.    And  has  he  told  you  that  he  loves  you? 

ANNETTE  [gravely]     Yes. 

LUCIE.  And  you  hid  all  that  from  me  ?  I  'm  sorry, 
Annette. 

ANNETTE.  I  'm  so,  so  sorry.  But  it  all  came  so  grad- 
ually. I  can  hardly  tell  now  exactly  when  it  began.  I 
even  thought  I  was  mistaken.  And  then  —  then  —  when 
we  first  dared  to  speak  to  one  another  about  what  we  had 
never  spoken  of,  though  we  both  knew  it  so  well  —  I 
knew  I  'd  done  wrong.  But  I  was  so  ashamed  I  could  n't 
tell  you  about  it  then. 

LUCIE  [tenderly]  All  the  same  it  was  very  naughty 
of  you,  darling. 

ANNETTE.  Oh,  don't  scold  me !  Please,  please  don't 
scold  me.  If  you  only  knew  how  I  've  repented  —  how 
unhappy  I  've  been.  Have  n't  you  noticed  ? 


Act  I  Maternity  17 

LUCIE.  Yes.  Then  he  's  spoken  to  his  father  and 
mother  ? 

ANNETTE.    Some  time  ago. 

LUCIE.    And  they  consent? 

ANNETTE.    They  are  coming  this  afternoon. 

LUCIE.    Why  didn't  they  come  sooner? 

ANNETTE.  Well  —  Jacques  begged  them  to,  but  they 
did  n't  want  it  at  first.  They  wanted  Gabrielle  to  be 
married  first.  It  was  even  arranged  that  I  should  pre- 
tend I  did  n't  know  they  had  been  told.  Then,  to-day,  I 
met  Jacques  in  the  street  — 

LUCIE.     In  the  street? 

ANNETTE.  Yes.  Lately  he  has  not  been  coming  to 
our  practices  —  so  I  meet  him  — 

LUCIE.     In  the  street ! 

ANNETTE.  Generally  we  only  bow  to  one  another,  and 
that 's  all.  But  to-day  he  said  to  me  as  he  passed,  "  My 
mother  is  going  to  your  house.  She  's  there  behind  me." 
Then  I  hurried  in  to  tell  you.  [With  a  happy  smile']  He 
was  quite  pale.  Please  don't  scold  me,  I  am  so  happy. 
Forgive  me. 

LUCIE  [kissing  her]  Yes:  I  forgive  you.  Then 
you  're  going  away  from  me,  you  bad  thing. 

ANNETTE.  Yes,  I  am  bad.  Bad  and  ungrateful. 
That 's  true. 

LUCIE.  Marriage  is  a  serious  thing.  Are  you  sure 
you  will  suit  one  another? 

ANNETTE.  Oh,  I  'm  certain  of  it.  We  Ve  quarrelled 
already. 

LUCIE.    What  about? 

ANNETTE.    About  a  book  he  lent  me. 

LUCIE.    What  book? 

ANNETTE.  Anna  Karenina.  He  liked  Vronsky  better 
than  Peter  Levin.  He  talked  nonsense.  He  said  he 
did  n't  believe  in  Madame  Karenina's  suicide.  You  re- 
member, she  throws  herself  under  the  wheels  of  the  train 


18  Maternity  Act  I 

Vronsky  is  going  away  in.     Don't  you  remember?     It 
does  n't  matter. 

LUCIE.    And  then? 

ANNETTE.  And  then  —  there  's  a  ring  —  perhaps 
that 's  the  Bernins. 

A  silence.     Catherine  appears  with  a  card. 

LUCIE.    Yes.    It 's  Madame  Bernin. 

ANNETTE.  Oh!  [Going  to  her  room]  You'll  come 
and  fetch  me  presently. 

LUCIE.    Yes.     [To  Catherine]     Show  the  lady  in. 

ANNETTE.    Don't  be  long. 

She  goes  out.  Lucie  tidies  herself  before  a  glass.  Ma- 
dame Bernin  comes  in. 

MME.  B.    How  do  you  do,  Madame  Brignac? 

LUCIE.    How  do  you  do,  madame  ? 

MME.  B.    Are  you  quite  well? 

LUCIE.    Very  well,  madame.    And  you? 

MME.  B.    I  need  not  ask  after  M.  Brignac. 

LUCIE.    And  M.  Bernin? 

MME.  B.    He  's  very  well,  thank  you. 

LUCIE.    Won't  you  sit  down? 

MME.  B.    Thank  you.     [Site]     What  lovely  weather. 

LUCIE.  Yes,  is  n't  it?  How  lucky  you  are  to  be  able 
to  get  into  the  country.  Annette  is  so  looking  forward 
to  her  visit  to  you. 

MME.  B.  Well,  I  came  to-day  —  first  of  all  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  —  and  then  to  have  a  chat 
with  you  about  that  very  matter. 

LUCIE.    And  about  another  matter,  too,  I  think. 

MME.  B.    Another  matter? 

LUCIE.     Not  about  another? 

MME.  B.    No,  I  don't  quite  understand  — 

LUCIE.  Oh,  then  I  beg  your  pardon.  Tell  me  what 
it  is  about  Annette's  visit. 

MME.  B.  My  daughter  has  just  got  an  invitation  to 
spend  some  time  with  her  cousins  the  Guibals,  and  we 


Act  I  Maternity  19 

can't  possibly  refuse  to  let  Gabrielle  go  to  them.  So 
I  've  come  to  beg  you  to  excuse  us,  because  —  as  Gabri- 
elle won't  be  there  — 

LUCIE.  Oh,  of  course,  madame.  Will  Mademoiselle 
Gabrielle  make  a  long  stay  with  her  cousins  ? 

MME.  B.  Well,  that 's  just  what 's  so  annoying.  We 
don't  know  exactly:  it  might  be  a  week,  or  it  might  be 
a  month.  And  she  may  stay  there  all  the  time  we  are 
away  from  Chateauneuf. 

LUCIE.     Poor  little  Annette ! 

MME.  B.  But  I  thought  you  were  going  away  some- 
where yourselves  this  Easter? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

MME.  B.  [kindly]  That  relieves  my  mind  a  little,  and 
I  hope  it  will  make  up  to  Mademoiselle  Annette  for  the 
disappointment  I  am  obliged  to  cause  her  —  to  my  very 
great  regret. 

LUCIE  [after  a  silence]  Will  you  excuse  me,  madame. 
[Hesitating]  Perhaps  this  is  indiscreet. 

MME.  B.    Oh,  I  am  sure  not,  Madame  Brignac. 

LUCIE.  I  only  wanted  to  ask  you  if  it  is  long  since 
Mademoiselle  Gabrielle  got  this  invitation  from  her 
cousins  ? 

MME.  B.    About  a  week. 

LUCIE.    A  week! 

MME.  B.    Why  does  that  surprise  you? 

LUCIE.    Because  she  did  not  mention  it  to  Annette. 

MME.  B.    She  was  afraid  of  disappointing  her. 

LUCIE.  Only  yesterday  Annette  was  telling  me  about 
all  sorts  of  excursions  your  daughter  was  planning  for 
them  both.  Madame,  this  invitation  is  an  excuse:  please 
tell  me  the  whole  truth.  Annette  is  only  my  sister,  but 
I  love  her  as  if  she  was  my  own  child,  and  I  speak  as  a 
mother  to  a  mother.  I  'm  not  going  to  try  to  be  clever 
or  to  stand  on  my  dignity.  This  is  how  it  is:  Annette 
believes  your  son  loves  her,  and  when  you  were  an- 


20  Maternity  Act  I 

nounced  just  now  she  thought  you  came  to  arrange  her 
marriage  with  him.  Now  you  know  all  that  I  know. 
Tell  me  the  truth,  and  let  us  do  what  we  can  to  prevent 
unhappiness. 

M  MK.  B.  As  you  speak  so  simply  and  feelingly  I  will 
tell  you  candidly  exactly  what  is  in  my  mind.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  this  invitation  to  Gabrielle  is  only  a  device  of 
ours  to  prevent  Jacques  and  Annette  seeing  any  more  of 
one  another. 

LUCIE.  Then  you  don't  want  them  to  see  any  more 
of  one  another? 

MME.  B.    No,  because  I  don't  want  them  to  marry. 

LUCIE.     Because  Annette  is  poor? 

MME.  B.  [after  some  hesitation]  Well  —  since  we  're 
speaking  plainly  —  yes,  because  she  is  poor.  Ah,  dear 
Madame  Brignac,  we  have  both  been  very  much  to  blame 
for  not  foreseeing  what  has  happened. 

LUCIE.    We  have  been  to  blame  ? 

MME.  B.  I  know  Annette,  and  I  like  her  very  much. 
I  know  you  too,  better  than  you  think,  and  I  have  the 
greatest  respect  and  esteem  for  you;  it  has  never  even 
occurred  to  me  that  in  seeking  our  acquaintance  you  had 
any  other  motive  than  friendship.  But  you  ought  to  have 
feared  and  foreseen  what  has  happened. 

LUCIE.  What  should  I  fear?  Annette  went  to  see 
Gabrielle.  How  could  I  know  that  you  let  your  son  be 
with  them?  You  knew  it  because  it  happened  at  your 
house,  and  it  is  you  who  have  been  wanting  in  prudence 
and  foresight.  You  invited  this  poor  child,  you  exposed 
her  to  danger,  you  let  her  take  a  fancy  to  your  son,  you 
allowed  them  to  fall  in  love  with  one  another,  and  you 
come  to-day  and  calmly  tell  me  that  this  marriage  is  im- 
possible, and  you  are  going  off  to  the  country  leaving  it 
to  me  to  break  the  poor  child's  heart. 

MME.  B.  How  do  you  know  I  foresaw  nothing?  And 
how  can  one  tell  the  right  moment  to  interfere  to  prevent 


Act  I  Maternity  21 

playmates  becoming  lovers?  While  I  was  uncertain 
did  n't  I  run  the  risk  of  causing  the  very  thing  I  was 
anxious  to  prevent,  by  separating  them  without  a  good 
reason?  When  I  really  felt  sure  there  was  danger  I 
spoke  to  Jacques.  I  said  to  him,  "  Annette  is  not  a 
suitable  match  for  you:  you  must  be  very  careful  how 
you  behave  to  her:  don't  forget  to  treat  this  girl  as  a 
sister." 

LUCIE.  And  he  said  "  It  is  too  late:  we  love  each 
other." 

MME.  B.  On  the  contrary,  he  said:  "You  needn't 
worry,  mother.  I  have  been  thinking  the  same  thing 
myself,  and  I  am  a  man  of  honor.  Besides,  though  An- 
nette is  charming,  she  's  not  the  sort  of  woman  I  mean  to 
marry." 

LUCIE.    How  long  ago  did  he  tell  you  that  ? 

MME.  B.    About  two  months  ago. 

LUCIE.  Well,  at  that  time  he  had  already  spoken  of 
marriage  to  Annette;  or  at  least  he  had  spoken  of  love, 
which  from  him  to  her  is  the  same  thing. 

MME.  B.    I  can  only  tell  you  what  I  know. 

LUCIE.  Well,  madame,  all  this  is  beside  the  question. 
You  are  opposed  to  this  marriage? 

MME.  B.    Yes. 

LUCIE.     Finally  ?     Irrevocably  ? 

MME.  B.     Finally.     Irrevocably. 

LUCIE.     Because  Annette  has  no  money? 

MME.  B.     Yes. 

LUCIE.  Your  son  knew  she  had  no  money  when  he 
made  her  love  him. 

MME.  B.  Believe  me,  he  did  n't  mean  to  do  the  harm 
he  has  done.  A  young  girl  of  his  own  age  was  his  sister's 
constant  companion,  and  at  first  he  treated  her  as  he 
treated  his  sister.  At  first,  I  'm  sure,  it  was  without  any 
special  intention  that  he  saw  so  much  of  her.  After- 
wards probably  he  made  some  pretty  speeches  to  your 


22  Maternity  Act  I 

little  Annette,  and  no  doubt  he  was  greatly  taken  with 
her.  As  Annette  is  more  innocent  and  simple  and  affec- 
tionate, and  of  course  more  ignorant  than  he  is,  she  has 
been  more  quickly  and  more  deeply  touched.  But  my 
son  is  not  the  worthless  fellow  you  think  him,  and  the 
proof  of  that  is  that  he  himself  came  and  told  me  all 
about  it. 

LUCIE.  And  when  you  told  him  he  must  give  up  An- 
nette, he  agreed  ? 

MME.  B.  Yes,  he  agreed.  He  's  reasonable  and  sen- 
sible, and  he  saw  the  force  of  my  arguments.  He  saw 
that  this  partingj  though  it  will  be  painful,  was  an  abso- 
lute necessity.  He  will  certainly  suffer;  but  they  are 
both  so  young.  At  that  age  love  troubles  don't  last. 

LUCIE.  I  understand.  In  a  week  your  son  will  have 
forgotten  all  about  it.  But  Annette  — 

MME.  B.     She  will  soon  forget  it,  too. 

LUCIE.  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know.  Oh,  my  poor 
darling!  If  you  had  seen  her  just  now  when  she  came 
to  tell  me  about  it!  It 's  not  for  joy  she  will  cry  now. 
Oh !  —  [she  begins  to  cry]. 

MME.  B.  [moved]  Don't  cry  —  oh,  don't  cry.  I 
assure  you  I  am  most  deeply  sorry.  Oh,  if  it  were  only 
possible,  how  happy  it  would  make  me  that  my  boy 
should  marry  Annette.  The  girl  he  is  engaged  to  is  an 
affected  little  thing  who  annoys  me,  and  I  really  love 
your  sister. 

LUCIE.  But  if  that  is  true  you  can  afford  to  let  your 
son  marry  a  girl  without  fortune. 

MME.  B.  No:  we're  not  so  well  off  as  people  think. 
There  's  Gabrielle  to  be  provided  for.  There  will  be  next 
to  nothing  left  for  Jacques. 

LUCIE.     But  he  might  work. 

MME.  B.     He  has  not  been  brought  up  to  that. 

LUCIE.    That  was  a  mistake. 

MME.  B.     The  professions  are  overcrowded.     Would 


Act  I  Maternity  23 

you  have  him  go  into  an  office  and  get  200  francs  a 
month  ?  They  would  n't  be  able  to  keep  a  servant. 

LUCIE.    He  could  earn  more  than  that. 

MME.  B.  If  he  got  500  —  could  he  keep  up  his  posi- 
tion? Could  he  remain  in  his  present  set?  It  would  be 
a  come-down  for  him;  a  come-down  he  would  owe  to 
his  wife;  and  sooner  or  later  he  would  reproach  her  for 
it.  And  think  of  their  children!  They  would  have  just 
enough  to  send  their  son  to  a  public  school,  and  make 
their  daughter  a  post  office  clerk.  And  even  then  they 
would  have  to  pinch  and  screw  to  provide  for  her  until 
she  got  in. 

LUCIE.     It 's  true. 

MME.  B.  You  see  that  I  'm  right.  I  can't  say  I  'm 
proud  of  having  to  say  such  things  —  of  belonging  to  a 
society  that  forces  one  to  do  such  things.  But  we  're  not 
in  a  land  of  romance.  We  live  among  vain,  selfish,  hard- 
headed  people. 

LUCIE.  You  despise  them,  and  yet  you  sacrifice  every- 
thing to  their  opinion. 

MME.  B.  Yes:  because  everything  depends  upon  their 
opinion.  Social  position  depends  upon  it.  One  must 
be  a  very  exceptional  person  to  be  able  to  defy  public 
opinion.  And  Jacques  is  not  exceptional. 

LUCIE.  That 's  nothing  to  be  proud  of.  If  he  was 
exceptional,  I  mean  if  he  was  different  to  all  these  people 
about,  he  would  find  his  love  would  prevent  him  from 
troubling  about  the  sneers  of  worthless  idlers. 

MME.  B.  His  love!  Love  goes:  poverty  stays:  it  is 
a  proverb.  Beauty  passes :  want  remains. 

LUCIE.  But  you,  madame,  yourself  —  you  and  your 
husband  are  a  proof  that  one  can  marry  poor  and  make 
a  fortune.  Your  story  is  well  known.  Your  husband 
began  in  an  office,  then  he  started  his  own  business ;  and 
if  riches  make  happiness,  you  are  happy  now  —  you  and 
he  —  are  n't  you  ? 


24  Maternity  Act  I 

MME.  B.  No,  no,  no;  we  are  not  happy,  because  we 
have  worn  ourselves  out  hunting  after  happiness.  We 
wanted  to  "  get  on,"  and  we  got  on.  But  what  a  price 
we  paid  for  it !  First,  when  we  were  both  earning  wages, 
our  life  was  one  long  drudgery  of  petty  economy  and 
meanness.  When  we  set  up  on  our  own  account  we  lived 
in  an  atmosphere  of  trickery,  of  enmity,  of  lying ;  flatter- 
ing the  customers,  and  always  in  terror  of  bankruptcy. 
Oh,  I  know  the  road  to  fortune !  It  means  tears,  lies, 
envy,  hate ;  one  suffers  —  and  one  makes  other  people 
suffer.  I  've  had  to  go  through  it:  my  children  shan't. 
We  've  only  had  two  children :  we  meant  only  to  have 
one.  Having  two  we  had  to  be  doubly  hard  upon  our- 
selves. Instead  of  a  husband  and  wife  helping  one  an- 
other, we  have  been  partners  spying  upon  one  another; 
calling  one  another  to  account  for  every  little  expenditure 
or  stupidity;  and  on  our  very  pillows  disputing  about 
our  business.  That 's  how  we  got  rich ;  and  now  we 
can't  enjoy  our  money  because  we  don't  know  how  to  use 
it ;  and  we  are  n't  happy  because  our  old  age  is  made 
bitter  by  the  memories  and  the  rancor  left  from  the  old 
bad  days:  because  we  have  suffered  too  much  and  hated 
too  much.  My  children  shall  not  go  through  this.  I  en- 
dured it  that  they  might  be  spared.  Good-bye,  madame. 

LUCIE.    Good-bye. 

Madame  Bernin  goes  out.  After  a  moment  Lucie  goes 
slowly  to  Annette's  door  and  opens  it. 

ANNETTE  [coming  in]  You  've  been  crying !  It 's 
because  I  'm  going  away,  is  n't  it  ?  Not  because  there  's 
anything  in  the  way  of  —  [with  increasing  trouble]  Tell 
me,  Lucie ! 

LUCIE.     You  love  him  so  much  then? 

ANNETTE.  If  we  were  not  to  be  married  —  I  should 
die. 

LUCIE.  No,  you  would  n't  die.  Think  of  all  the  girls 
who  have  said  that:  did  they  die? 


Act  I  Maternity  25 

ANNETTE.     Is  there  anything  to  prevent? 

LUCIE.    No,  no. 

ANNETTE.  And  when  is  it  to  be?  Did  you  talk  about 
that? 

LUCIE.  What  a  state  of  excitement  you  are  in !  An- 
nette, dear,  you  must  try  to  control  yourself  a  little. 

ANNETTE  [making  an  effort]  Yes.  You  're  right. 
I  'm  a  little  off  my  head. 

LUCIE.    You  are  really. 

ANNETTE  [still  controlling  herself]  Well,  tell  me. 
What  did  Madame  Bernin  say? 

LUCIE.  What  a  hurry  you  are  in  to  leave  me !  You 
don't  care  for  me  any  more,  then? 

ANNETTE  [gravely]  Ah,  my  dear!  If  I  hadn't  you 
what  would  become  of  me !  [A  silence]  But  you  're 
telling  me  nothing.  You  don't  seem  to  be  telling  me  the 
truth  —  you  're  hiding  something  from  me  —  there  is 
some  difficulty,  I  'm  certain  of  it.  If  there  was  n't  you  'd 
say  there  was  n't,  you  would  n't  put  me  off  —  you  'd  tell 
me  what  Madame  Bernin  said. 

LUCIE.    Well  —  there  is  something. 

ANNETTE  [bursting  into  tears]     Oh,  my  God  ! 

LUCIE.  You  are  both  very  young.  It  would  be  better 
to  wait  a  little  —  a  year  —  perhaps  more. 

ANNETTE  [crying]     Wait  —  a  year ! 

LUCIE.  Come,  come,  stop  crying.  There  's  really  no 
reason  for  all  this.  I  am  not  quite  pleased  with  you, 
Annette.  You  're  barely  nineteen.  If  you  waited  to 
marry  until  you  are  twenty  it  would  be  no  harm. 

ANNETTE.    It 's  not  possible  ! 

LUCIE.  Not  possible?  [She  looks  searchingly  at  her]. 
Annette,  you  frighten  me.  If  it  was  n't  you  —  [ten- 
derly and  gravely]  Have  I  been  wrong  to  trust  you? 

ANNETTE.  No!  No!  What  can  you  be  thinking  of 
—  Oh,  indeed  — 

LUCIE.     What  is  it,  then? 


26  Maternity  Act  I 

ANNETTE.  Well,  I  Ve  been  such  a  fool  as  to  tell  some 
friends  I  was  engaged. 

LUCIE.     Before  speaking  to  me  about  it? 

ANNETTE  [confused]  Don't,  please,  ask  me  any  more 
questions. 

LUCIE.  Annette,  I  must  scold  you  a  little.  You  've 
hurt  me  very  much  by  keeping  me  in  the  dark  about  all 
this.  Nothing  would  have  made  me  believe  that  you  'd 
do  such  a  thing.  I  thought  you  were  too  fond  of  me  not 
to  tell  me  at  once  about  anybody  —  any  man  —  you  were 
interested  in.  I  find  I  was  mistaken.  We  see  one  an- 
other every  day,  we  are  never  parted,  and  yet  you  have 
managed  to  conceal  from  me  the  one  thing  your  heart  was 
full  of.  You  ought  to  have  told  me.  Not  because  I  am 
your  elder  sister,  but  because  I  take  mother's  place 
towards  you.  And  for  a  better  reason  still  —  because  I 
am  your  friend.  It 's  been  a  kind  of  treason.  A  little 
more,  and  I  should  have  heard  that  you  were  engaged 
from  strangers  and  not  from  you.  Well,  my  dear,  you  Ve 
been  wrong:  these  people  are  not  worth  crying  about. 
Now  be  brave  and  remember  your  self-respect:  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  They  don't  want 
you,  my  poor  little  girl:  you  are  not  rich  enough  for 
them. 

ANNETTE  [staring  blindly  at  her  sister]  They  don't 
want  me !  They  don't  want  me !  But  Jacques  !  Jacques  ! 
Does  he  know? 

LUCIE.    Yes,  he  knows. 

ANNETTE.    He  means  to  give  me  up  if  they  tell  him  to? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

ANNETTE  [beside  herself]  I  must  see  him.  I  will 
write  to  him.  I  must  see  him.  If  they  don't  want  me 
there  is  nothing  left  but  to  kill  myself. 

LUCIE  [obliging  Annette  to  look  her  in  the  face]  An- 
nette, look  at  me.  [Silence.  Then  tenderly  and  gravely] 
I  think  you  have  something  to  tell  me. 


Act  I  Maternity  27 

ANNETTE,  [tearing  herself  away~\  Don't  ask  me  — 
don't  [very  low]  or  I  shall  die  of  shame. 

Lucie  forces  her  to  sit  down  beside  her  and  takes  her 
in  her  arms. 

LUCIE.  Come  —  into  my  arms.  Put  your  head  on  my 
shoulder  as  you  used  when  you  were  little.  There  now, 
tell  me  what  the  trouble  is.  [Speaking  low].  My  dar- 
ling —  my  little  darling  —  I  'm  afraid  you  're  most  un- 
happy. Try  and  think  that  it 's  mother. 

ANNETTE  [very  low,  crying  piteously]  Oh,  mother! 
If  you  knew  what  I  have  done ! 

LUCIE  [rocking  her  gently]  There  —  tell  me.  Whis- 
per it  to  me.  Whisper  — 

Annette  whispers.  Lucie  rises  and  separates  herself 
from  her  sister.  She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  Annette!     You! 

ANNETTE  [kneeling  and  stretching  out  her  arms]  For- 
give me !  Forgive  me  !  Forgive  me !  I  deserve  it  all. 
But  I  'm  almost  mad. 

LUCIE.    You,  Annette!    You! 

ANNETTE.  Are  you  going  to  make  me  sorry  I  did  n't 
kill  myself  before  I  told  you !  Forgive  me  — 

LUCIE.  Get  up.  It 's  too  awful.  I  must  forgive  you. 
[She  sits  down], 

ANNETTE  [still  kneeling]  I  did  n't  know  —  I  under- 
stood nothing.  He  took  me  by  surprise.  I  had  loved 
him  for  a  long  time.  When  he  was  with  his  regiment  I 
used  to  look  forward  for  weeks  to  his  coming  home  on 
leave.  Just  the  thought  of  seeing  him  used  to  make  me 
tremble.  Before  I  even  knew  myself  that  I  was  in  love 
with  him,  he  guessed  it.  He  made  me  tell  him  so  when 
he  asked  me  to  marry  him.  Then  one  day  —  his  father 
and  mother  were  away,  and  someone  came  and  called 
Gabrielle,  I  don't  know  why.  When  we  were  alone  — •• 
I  did  n't  understand  —  I  thought  he  had  suddenly  gone 
mad.  But  when  he  kissed  me  like  that  I  was  stunned  — • 


28  Maternity  Act  I 

I  could  n't  do  anything  —  happy,  and  afraid,  and 
ashamed.  That  was  three  months  ago.  The  next  day 
I  met  him  in  the  street.  I  was  in  such  a  state  that  he 
said,  quite  of  himself,  "  I  shall  speak  at  once  to  my  people 
about  our  marriage."  I  know  he  meant  it,  because  really 
he  is  honest  and  good.  Only,  I  suppose  he  had  n't  cour- 
age. Then,  when  I  found  they  were  going  away  so  soon, 
I  said  to  him  yesterday,  "  You  must  speak."  And  now 
they  don't  want  me ! 

LUCIE.     And  he  knows  that — ? 

ANNETTE.  No.  No.  Since  that  day  —  O,  that 
day !  —  I  've  never  been  alone  with  him.  We  say 
"  monsieur "  and  "  mademoiselle "  when  we  meet 
and  [in  an  awe-struck  tone]  he  is  the  father  of  my 
child. 

LUCIE  [after  a  silence]  It 's  not  a  question  now  of  a 
girl  not  to  be  married  because  she  is  poor.  It 's  a  ques- 
tion of  atoning  for  a  crime.  Julien  must  speak  to  M. 
Bernin. 

ANNETTE.    You  're  going  to  tell  him  ? 

LUCIE.  I  must.  Go  back  to  your  room.  You  're  in  no 
fit  state  to  come  to  dinner.  [She  looks  at  the  clock]  I 
have  only  just  time  to  dress.  Directly  the  people 
are  gone  I  shall  speak  to  Jules.  When  do  they  go 
away? 

ANNETTE.     In  a  fortnight. 

LUCIE.  It 's  no  matter.  Jules  shall  see  M.  Bernin 
to-morrow. 

ANNETTE.  He  won't.  He  '11  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  me. 

LUCIE.    No.    He  will  do  all  he  can  to  save  you. 

ANNETTE.  I  don't  think  so.  Dearest,  you  are 
mistaken. 

LUCIE.  No,  I  'm  not  mistaken.  I  am  certain.  Go. 
[Annette  goes  out],  I  'm  not  mistaken.  But  if  I  were! 
If  there  were  no  one  but  me  to  defend  this  child  and  her 


Act  I  Maternity  29 

baby!     [A  knock  at  the  office  door].     Come  in.     [The 
clerk  enters]     What  is  it? 

CLERK  [laying  a  paper  on  the  table]  It  is  the  circular 
from  the  Minister  of  the  Interior.  M.  le  sous-prefet  told 
me  to  put  it  here. 


ACT    II 

Same  scene. 

Lucie,  the  colonel,  Madame  Chevillot,  Chevillot,  the 
sous-intendant,  Brignac,  Jacques  Poiret,  Pierre  Poiret, 
and  Laurent.  The  last  three  are  provincial  mayors. 

Lucie  and  Madame  Chevillot  are  in  smart  evening 
gowns;  the  colonel  and  the  sous-intendant  in  uniform; 
Chevillot  and  Brignac  are  in  evening  dress;  Jacques 
Poiret  in  a  frock  coat,  and  Laurent  and  Pierre  Poiret 
in  morning  coats. 

It  is  after  dinner.    They  are  drinking  coffee. 

PIERRE  [a  tall,  thin  peasant,  embarrassed  by  his  coffee 
cup,  speaks  aside  to  Laurent  in  a  strong  provincial  ac- 
cent] A  fine  thing,  ain't  it,  to  be  so  rich  and  not  have 
enough  tables  to  go  round. 

LAURENT  [formerly  a  working  man,  to  Pierre  Poiret] 
At  lunch  't  was  just  the  same. 

JACQUES  [a  crafty  farmer,  putting  his  cup  down  upon 
the  centre  table,  and  speaking  generally]  As  for 
me,  I  — 

LAURENT  [passing  his  cup  to  Jacques]  M.  le  maire, 
would  you  mind? 

PIERRE  [the  same]     M.  le  maire,  would  you — ? 

They  get  rid  of  their  cups,  passing  them  from  one 
to  the  other. 

BRIGNAC  [to  the  mayors]  Will  you  take  liqueurs? 
[He  points  to  a  bottle  and  small  glasses  on  a  tray], 

ALL  THREE  [making  too  much  fuss  about  it]  Thank 
you,  thank  you,  M.  le  sous-prefet. 

30 


Act  II  Maternity  31 

BRIGNAC.  Delighted.  [He  passes  behind  the  centre 
table  and  pours  out  liqueur], 

Sous-lN.  [He  is  small  and  thin  and  wears  spectacles: 
a  professor  disguised  as  a  soldier]  Yes,  ladies :  it  is  an 
eccentricity.  I  acknowledge  it  and  beg  you  to  excuse  it: 
I  am  a  collector.  But  you  must  confess  that  I  have  not 
bored  you  with  it. 

COLONEL  [very  much  the  fine  gentleman]  Indeed, 
no,  it  was  I  who  let  out  the  secret.  But  I  said  also  that 
you  are  a  learned  man. 

Sous-lN.    A  dabbler  only,  colonel. 

BRIGNAC  [pretending  to  find  upon  the  table  the  circu- 
lar mentioned  in  the  first  act]  Hullo!  what's  this? 
[No  one  hears  him.  He  puts  the  circular  back  again 
upon  the  table], 

LUCIE  [to  the  sous-intendant]  And  are  you  also  a 
literary  man? 

Sous-lN.  The  Intelligence  Department  is  the  literary 
section  of  the  army. 

LAURENT  [to  Jacques  Poiret,  passing  him  his  glass] 
M.  le  maire  — ? 

PIERRE  [same  thing]     M.  le  maire — ? 

BRIGNAC  [again  taking  up  the  circular:  in  a  louder 
voice]  Hullo!  What's  this?  [They  all  look  at  him]. 
It 's  that  very  circular  I  was  talking  about  at  dinner :  the 
one  from  the  Minister  of  the  Interior. 

COL.    About  the  decline  of  the  population  ? 

BRIGNAC.  Yes,  colonel.  This  is  an  important  official 
document.  It  came  to-day,  and  I  have  been  carefully 
considering  what  can  be  done  to  advance  this  movement 
in  my  own  humble  sphere  of  influence.  [To  Chevillot] 
As  I  said  to  you  a  short  time  ago,  M.  le  maire  of  Chateau- 
neuf,  the  Minister  desires  to  see  the  whole  of  France 
covered  with  associations  having  the  increase  of  the 
population  for  their  object;  I  am  certain  that  you  will 
desire  that  this  town  of  Chateauneuf,  of  which  you  are 


32  Maternity  Act  II 

the  chief  magistrate  and  in  which  I  am  the  representa- 
tive of  the  Republic,  should  have  the  honor  of  being 
among  the  first  to  set  out  upon  the  road  indicated  to  us. 

CHEV.  I  'm  with  you.  I  am  a  manufacturer:  I  am  all 
for  large  populations. 

BRIGNAC.  You  are  the  very  man  to  be  president  of 
the  Chateauneuf  association. 

COL.    I  am  a  soldier:   I  also  am  for  large  populations. 

LUCIE.    And  you,  M.  1'intendant? 

Sous-lN.    I,  mad. •uiic.  am  a  bachelor. 

COL.  [joking]     More  shame  for  you ! 

BRIGNAC  [also  joking]  It 's  a  scandal,  monsieur,  a 
perfect  scandal. 

MME.  CHEV.    You  don't  regret  it? 

SOUS-!N.    Ah,  I  don't  say  that,  madame. 

BRIGNAC  [to  the  three  mayors]  You  have  heard,  mes- 
sieurs les  maires:  commerce  and  the  army  require  the 
increase  of  the  population,  and  the  Government  com- 
mands you,  therefore,  to  further  this  end  to  the  best  of 
your  ability,  each  one  of  you  in  his  own  commune. 

The  three  mayors  seem  annoyed.  They  look  at  one 
another. 

PIERRE  [nervelessly]     All  right,  M.  le  sous-prefet. 

LAUR.  [in  the  same  tone]     I  '11  mention  it. 

JACQUES  [the  same]     I  '11  think  it  over. 

BRIGNAC.  Oh,  but  gentlemen,  I  want  something  more 
definite  than  that.  I  am  a  man  of  action :  I  am  not  to  be 
put  off  with  words.  "  Acta  non  verba."  May  I  depend 
on  you  to  set  to  work? 

LAUR.  You  see,  M.  le  sous-prefet,  this  '11  take  a  bit 
of  thinking  over. 

JACQUES.    Don't  be  in  a  hurry. 

BRIGNAC.  We  must  be  men  of  action.  M.  Pierre  Poi- 
ret,  now  is  your  chance,  won't  you  give  them  a  lead? 

PIERRE.     Me  —  M.  le  sous-prefet? 

BRIGNAC.    Yes,  you,  M.  le  maire ! 


Act  II  Maternity  33 

PIERRE.  No  —  oh,  no  —  not  me.  If  you  knew  —  no 
—  not  me.  [Pointing  to  his  neighbor]  My  brother, 
Jacques  Poiret:  he's  your  man.  Ask  Jacques,  M.  le 
sous-prefet,  he  can't  refuse.  But  me  —  not  me ! 

BRIGNAC.    Then  it  is  to  be  you,  M.  Jacques  Poiret? 

JACQUES.  If  they  want  to  start  an  association  in  my 
commune,  M.  le  sous-prefet,  they  must  get  Thierry  to 
see  to  it. 

BRIGNAC.    Who  is  Thierry? 

JACQUES.     My  opponent  at  the  next  election. 

BRIGNAC.     Why  ? 

JACQUES.  Why  —  if  he  goes  in  for  this  I  'm  certain 
to  get  in.  But  about  the  next  commune,  I  can't  under- 
stand why  my  brother  Pierre  won't. 

PIERRE.    Me  ? 

JACQUES.    Yes,  you  're  the  very  man. 

BRIGNAC.    Why? 

JACQUES.    Why?    Because  he  has  eight  children. 

BRIGNAC.  You,  M.  Pierre  Poiret,  you  have  eight  chil- 
dren, and  you  said  nothing  about  it !  Let  these  ladies 
congratulate  you. 

PIERRE  [resisting]  It 's  not  civil,  M.  le  sous-prefet, 
it 's  not  civil. 

BRIGNAC.     What  d'  you  mean? 

PIERRE.  When  you  ask  people  to  dinner  it 's  not  to 
make  fun  of  them. 

BRIGNAC.    But  I  'm  not  making  fun  of  you. 

PIERRE.  You  'd  be  the  first  that  did  n't.  /  can't  help 
it !  It 's  real  bad  luck,  that 's  what  it  is.  But  it 's  no 
reason  why  I  should  always  be  made  fun  of. 

BRIGNAC.     But  — 

PIERRE.  Yes,  it 's  always  the  same.  In  my  com- 
mune — 

BRIGNAC  [interrupting]     But  I  assure  you  — 

PIERRE.  In  my  commune  they  're  always  joking  about 
me.  They  say  "  Hey,  Pierre  Poiret,  there  's  a  prize  for 


34  Maternity  Act  II 

the  twelfth !  "  Or  they  say  "  Pierre  Poiret  "  —  and 
there  is  n't  a  single  day  they  don't  say  it,  and  everyone 
thinks  it  'a  funny,  and  they  split  with  laughing  —  they 
say  "  Pierre  Poiret  "  —  only  —  hum  —  not  before  the 
ladies.  [Jacques  Poiret  is  holding  his  sides']  Just  look 
at  that  fool !  I  'm  sure  he  brought  the  talk  round  to  that 
a'  purpose. 

BRIGNAC.    No,  no. 

PIERRE.  I  bet  you  he  did.  Whenever  we  're  in  com- 
pany it 's  the  same  thing.  I  won't  go  about  with  him  any 
more. 

BRIGNAC.     But  your  position  is  most  honorable. 

PIERRE.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  he  's  right.  I  call 
myself  a  fool  myself  when  I  'm  alone.  [Jacques  Poiret 
goes  on  laughing]  Look  at  him  —  grinning  —  look !  — 
because  he 's  only  got  two.  [To  his  brother]  You 
puppy ! 

COL.  [to  Pierre  Poiret]  You  deserve  the  greatest 
credit,  M.  Pierre  Poiret. 

BRIGNAC.     You  do. 

CHEV.    You  do,  indeed,  monsieur. 

COL.  [to  Pierre  Poiret]  In  comparing  your  conduct 
with  your  brother's  all  men  of  real  worth  will  blame  him 
and  congratulate  you,  as  I  do,  most  sincerely.  [He 
shakes  him  by  the  hand]. 

CHEV.  [to  Pierre  Poiret]  Bravo,  monsieur!  You  are 
helping  us  in  our  great  work.  [He  shakes  him  by  the 
hand]. 

JACQUES  [looking  at  his  brother]  They  seem  as  if 
they  meant  it ! 

BRIGNAC  [to  Jacques  Poiret]  You,  monsieur,  have 
chosen  the  easier  and  more  agreeable  life;  don't  be  sur- 
prised if  we  look  upon  your  brother  as  the  more  merito- 
rious, though  you  may  be  cleverer. 

PIERRE  [striking  his  thigh]  That's  the  talk.  [To  his 
brother]  Put  that  in  your  pipe,  M.  Jacques. 


Act  II  Maternity  35 

JACQUES.  All  right.  You  are  the  most  meritorious. 
Is  that  what  you  're  going  to  pay  your  baker  with? 

PIERRE.  Shut  up !  I  'm  the  best  citizen !  I  'm  the 
most  meritorious ! 

JACQUES.     H'm  —  yes.    What  does  that  bring  you  in? 

Sous-lN.  /  will  tell  you  that,  monsieur.  It  brings  in 
to  your  brother,  as  the  poet  says,  "  The  joy  of  duty 
done." 

JACQUES.     H'm.     That  won't  put  butter  on  his  bread. 

Sous-lN.  That  is  true.  But  one  can't  have  every- 
thing. 

PIERRE  [to  Brignac,  pointing  to  his  brother]  He  's 
right,  monsieur.  For  the  once  that  I  've  been  compli- 
mented, I  've  had  to  go  through  some  bad  times. 

BRIGNAC.    You  must  n't  think  of  that. 

PIERRE.    Oh  —  must  n't  I  ?    Go  along !    He  's  right. 

BRIGNAC.    He  's  not. 

PIERRE.    Yes,  he  is. 

CHEV.  and  COL.    No,  np. 

PIERRE.    Yes,  he  is. 

BRIGNAC.  No.  It 's  possible  that  some  people  might 
think  so  now;  but  in  ten  years  the  tables  will  be  turned. 
He  may  die  lonely,  while  you  will  have  a  happy  old  age 
with  your  children  and  your  grandchildren. 

PIERRE.  Perhaps  it  was  like  that  once;  but  nowadays 
as  soon  as  the  children  can  get  along  by  themselves,  off 
they  go ! 

CHEV.    Even  so  they  will  send  you  help  if  you  need  it. 

JACQUES.  They  could  n't  help  him,  even  if  they 
wanted  to. 

COL.    Why  not? 

JACQUES.  Because  as  there  were  eight  he  could  n't  do 
anything  for  them,  so  they  '11  only  be  struggling,  hand- 
to-mouth  creatures;  not  earning  enough  to  keep  them- 
selves, much  less  help  him. 

PIERRE.     And  he  's  been  able  to  bring  up  his  well. 


36  Maternity  Act  II 

He  's  only  one  girl :  he  gave  her  a  fortune  and  she  made 
a  fine  marriage.  He  's  only  one  boy :  he  was  able  to  send 
him  to  Grignon  and  he  '11  earn  big  money  like  his  father. 
No :  it 's  no  use  your  talking.  They  're  right  when 
they  say  "  Well,  Poiret,"  —  h'm  —  not  before  the 
ladies. 

He  goes  to  the  table,  pours  himself  out  a  glass  of  cog- 
nac, and  drinks  it. 

COL.  I  regret  to  say  we  have  become  too  farseeing  a 
nation.  Everyone  thinks  of  his  own  future:  no  one 
thinks  of  the  good  of  the  community. 

BRIGNAC.  In  former  times  people  troubled  less  about 
the  future.  They  had  faith,  and  remembered  the  words 
of  the  Scriptures,  "  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how 
they  grow;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin:  and  yet 
I  say  unto  you,  that  even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these." 

LUCIE.  And  yet  there  are  little  children  going  about 
in  rags. 

Sous-lN.  God  must  be  less  interested  in  them  than  in 
the  lilies  of  the  field. 

COL.  [to  Jacques  Poiret~\  But,  monsieur,  you  need 
hands,  too,  in  harvest-time. 

JACQUES.  I  have  a  cutting-and-binding  machine.  It 
does  the  work  of  twelve  men,  and  only  cost  a  thousand 
francs.  A  child  costs  more. 

CHEV.    We  must  have  workmen  to  make  machines. 

JACQUES.  We  buy  the  machines  ready-made  in  Amer- 
ica much  cheaper  than  w.  *.  can  make  them  in  France. 

CHEV.  If  there  were  a  greater  number  of  workmen 
we  might  cut  down  wages  and  produce  at  lower  prices. 

JACQUES.  Cut  down  wages !  The  workmen  are  com- 
plaining already  that  they  can't  live  on  their  wages. 

CHEV.  Bah !  give  them  twenty  francs  a  day,  and 
they  '11  still  complain. 

Sous-lN.     You  have  not  tried  that  yet. 


Act  II  Maternity  37 

COL.  My  dear  fellow,  remember  that,  as  a  bachelor, 
you  are  out  of  this  discussion. 

Sous-lN.     I  withdraw. 

CHEV.  I  did  n't  mean  that  for  you,  Laurent.  [To  the 
Colonel]  M.  Laurent,  the  mayor  of  Ste.  Genevieve,  was 
formerly  a  workman,  of  mine,  but  he  came  into  a  little 
money,  and  went  back  to  his  native  place.  [To  Laurent] 
No  —  I  did  n't  mean  it  for  you ;  but  they  're  not  all  like 
you,^you  know. 

BRIGNAC  [to  Laurent]  So  you  refuse  to  form  an  asso- 
ciation too? 

LAUR.    Refuse,  M.  le  sous-prefet?    No. 

BRIGNAC.  At  last !  Here  's  a  mayor  who  understands 
his  duties.  He  '11  start  the  thing  among  his  people,  and 
before  long  we  shall  have  the  commune  of  Ste.  Gene- 
vieve setting  an  example  to  the  whole  of  France. 

LAUR.  Don't  get  that  into  y\>ur  head,  monsieur ;  you  '11 
be  disappointed. 

BRIGNAC.    No,  no. 

LAUR.  Whether  you  form  your  association  or  don't 
form  your  association,  the  people  at  home  are  too  sen- 
sible to  have  more  children  than  they  've  cradles  for. 
They  know  too  well  they  must  put  a  bit  by. 

BRIGNAC.  If  you  think  that  an  association  will  make 
no  difference  why  do  you  agree  to  form  one? 

LAUR.  Because  I  want  you  to  get  me  what  you  prom- 
ised me. 

BRIGNAC.    What  was  that? 

LAUR.    You  know. 

BRIGNAC.    No,  I  don't. 

Laurent  touches  his  buttonhole. 

BRIGNAC  [angrily]  Is  that  what  we  've  come  to?  We 
were  speaking  of  the  good  of  the  community. 

CHEV.  [the  same]  It 's  most  discouraging.  We  point 
out  to  you  that  the  trade  of  the  country  is  in  danger. 

BRIGNAC.     And  you  only  think  of  yourself. 


38  Maternity  Act  II 

CHEV.    You  only  think  of  yourself. 

BRIONAC.    What  a  want  of  public  spirit ! 

CHEV.     Bad  citizenship! 

LAUR.  [getting  excited]  Oh,  yes !  Making  the  poor 
do  everything !  Go  and  talk  to  the  middle  classes, 
who  've  money  enough  to  rear  children  by  the  dozen,  and 
who  've  fewer  than  the  workmen.  Here  's  M.  Chevillot: 
he  has  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year,  I  have  two  thou- 
sand. When  he  has  ten  children,  then  I  '11  have  one. 
That  '11  be  fair  and  square,  won't  it  now  ? 

CHEV.     These  personalities  — 

LAUR.    Is  it  true  that  you  've  only  one  son  ? 

CHEV.  It 's  true.  But  if  I  had  several  my  works 
would  have  to  be  sold  at  my  death,  and  — 

LAUR.  There  we  are.  These  gentlemen  are  too  pre- 
cious careful  about  the  fortunes  they  leave  their  own 
children ;  but  when  it 's  a  question  of  the  workmen's 
children,  they  think  it  don't  matter  if  there  ain't  enough 
victuals  to  go  round. 

CHEV.  It  is  to  the  interest  of  the  workmen  that  my 
works  should  be  prosperous. 

LAUR.    But  you  only  take  unmarried  men. 

CHEV.    I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  — 

LAUR.    Is  it  true? 

CHEV.  It 's  because  of  the  Employers'  Liability  Bill. 
Let  me  explain  —  [Laurent  turns  his  back  on  him. 
He  addresses  himself  to  Brignac]  Allow  me  to  — 
[Brignac  does  not  listen.  To  the  sous-intendant]  If  I 
was  allowed  to  explain  you  would  understand.  I  'm  per- 
fectly consistent. 

LAUR.  Are  we  to  do  as  you  say,  or  are  we  to  do 
as  you  do?  If  you  believed  what  you  say  you'd  act 
accordingly. 

CHEV.    But  — 

BRIGNAC.  We  should  n't  indulge  in  these  personali- 
ties. We  must  look  higher.  Lift  up  your  hearts.  Sur- 


Act  II  Maternity  39 

sum  corda.  You  have  just  heard,  gentlemen,  that  com- 
merce and  the  army  protest  against  the  decline  of  the 
population.  And  I,  the  representative  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  this  country,  tell  you,  in  concert  with  commerce 
and  the  army,  that  there  must  be  more  births. 

LAUR.    And  what 's  the  Government  doing? 

BRIONAC.  What  is  it  doing !  —  well  —  and  this 
circular  ? 

Sous-lN.  We  must  be  just.  Besides  this  circular, 
the  Government  has  appointed  a  Commission  to  enquire 
into  the  matter. 

BRIGNAC.    Various  measures  are  being  brought  up. 

LAUR.    When  they  're  passed  —  we  '11  see. 

BRIGNAC.  Those  who  have  a  large  family  will  be 
exempted  from  taxation. 

LAUR.     From  what  taxes? 

BRIGNAC.  What  taxes !  The  taxes  you  pay  to  the 
collector,  of  course. 

LAUR.  Listen,  M.  le  sous-prefet.  The  poor  pay  next 
to  nothing  of  those  taxes.  They  pay  the  real  taxes :  the 
taxes  upon  bread,  wine,  salt,  tobacco :  and  they  '11  go  on 
paying  them.  The  more  children  you  have,  the  more 
money  the  State  takes  from  you. 

Sous-lN.  Pray  do  not  forget  that  the  State  proposes 
to  confer  a  decoration  upon  every  mother  of  seven 
children. 

PIERRE  [to  Laurent]     There  you  are! 

JACQUES.  M.  le  sous-prefet,  we  must  be  off.  We  Ve 
a  long  way  to  go. 

BRIGNAC  [to  Jacques]     Good-night,  M.  le  maire. 

PIERRE  [tipsy]     I  'm  all  right  here.    Why  go  'way? 

LAUR.  I  'm  a  fool,  M.  Brignac.  I  'm  afraid  I  've 
been  setting  you  against  me.  I  '11  start  an  association 
—  trust  me.  Good-night.  Good-night,  madame. 

JACQUES.    Good-night,  madame. 

LUCIE.     Good-night,  good-night. 


40  Maternity  Act  II 

PIERRE.  Good-night,  ladies,  gents,  and  —  hie  —  the 
company. 

They  go  out,  accompanied  by  Brignac. 

COL.  [to  Lucie  and  Madame  Chevillot]  I  'm  afraid 
we  've  bored  you,  ladies,  with  our  discussion. 

LUCIE.    Not  at  all. 

COL.  I  notice  that  women  are  usually  a  little  impa- 
tient if  we  talk  of  these  questions. 

Sous-lN.  As  impatient  as  we  should  be  if  they  dis- 
cussed the  recruiting  laws  without  consulting  us. 

MME.  CHEV.    Precisely. 

COL.  [to  Lucie]  Perhaps,  too,  you  don't  agree  with 
us. 

LUCIE.  You  '11  never  make  women  understand  why 
children  must  be  created  to  be  killed  in  your  battles. 

COL.  [to  the  sous-intendant~\  There,  that 's  how  the 
military  ruin  of  a  country  is  brought  about. 

Sous-lN.  You  're  right,  colonel,  if  it  be  true  that 
power  is  a  function  of  number. 

COL.    Well,  isn't  it? 

Sous-lN.  Those  who  believe  the  contrary  say  "  There 
is  no  evidence  in  history  that  supremacy,  even  military 
supremacy,  has  ever  belonged  to  the  most  numerous 
peoples."  I  quote  M.  de  Varigny.  General  von  der  Gotz 
shares  this  opinion,  and  our  own  General  Serval  says, 
"  All  great  military  operations  have  been  performed  by 
small  armies." 

Brignac  comes  in. 

COL.  Oh,  ho,  Mr.  Bachelor,  you  Ve  got  all  the  argu- 
ments on  your  side  at  your  finger-ends. 

BRIGNAC.  We  shall  make  laws  against  you  and  your 
like,  M.  le  sous-intendant.  We  shall  make  it  impossible 
for  you  to  receive  money  by  will,  as  the  Romans  did. 
We  shall  make  you  pay  fines,  as  the  Greeks  did.  And 
we  '11  invent  something  new,  if  necessary. 

Sous-Ix.    Compulsory  paternity ! 


Act  II  Maternity  41 

COL.  One  may  fairly  ask  whether  people  have  the 
right  to  shirk  these  obligations. 

SOUS-!N.     Some  people  think  it  is  their  duty. 

BRIGNAC.    Their  duty ! 

Sous-lN.    Are  you  sure  that  all  men  who  don't  marry 
are  bachelors  from  pure  selfishness  ? 
%  COL.    Of  course,  we  're  not  speaking  of  you  personally. 

Sous-lN.  Do  so,  by  all  means.  It  was  not  out  of  mere 
lightness  of  heart  that  I  deprived  myself  of  the  tender- 
ness of  a  wife  and  the  caresses  of  a  child.  When  I 
was  young  I  was  poor  and  sickly.  I  did  not  choose  to 
bring  children  into  the  world  when  I  had  nothing  to 
leave  them  but  my  bad  constitution.  I  said,  in  the  words 
of  a  great  poet: 

Remain 

In  the  elusive  realm  of  might-have-been, 
O  son  more  loved  than  any  ever  born! 

I  thought  it  better  to  be  lonely  than  let  the  stock  go 
from  bad  to  worse.  I  believe  it  is  a  crime  to  bring  a 
child  into  the  world  if  one  cannot  give  it  health  and  bring 
it  up  well.  We  saw  one  hundred  conscripts  this  morn- 
ing, colonel,  and  we  passed  sixty.  Would  it  not  have 
been  better  if  there  had  only  been  eighty  and  we  could 
have  passed  them  all? 

COL.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  said  what  I  said 
because  I  've  heard  it  so  constantly  repeated. 

Sous-lN.  When  there  are  healthy  houses  and  food  and 
clothing  for  everyone  it  will  be  time  to  think  of  adding 
to  the  number. 

LUCIE.     That  is  very  true. 

CHEV.  You  evidently  don't  share  M.  Brignac's  ideas, 
madame. 

BRIGNAC.  Oh,  indeed  she  does.  Madame  Brignac  and 
I  have  three  children,  and  we  don't  mean  to  stop  there: 
so  my  wife  may  qualify  for  that  decoration  some  day. 

LUCIE    [to   Chevillot]      As   far  as   I   can  see,  M.   le 


42  Maternity  Act  II 

maire,  when  children  are  born  now  society  does  not 
always  make  them  welcome. 

BRIONAC.  I  think,  my  dear,  that  you  had  better 
leave  the  discussion  of  this  important  question  to  the 
gentlemen. 

LUCIE.  But  surely  it  has  some  interest  for  us  women ! 
I  hear  everyone  else  consulted  about  it  —  political  people 
and  business  people  —  but  nobody  ever  thinks  of  con- 
sulting us. 

BRIGNAC.  Far  from  not  welcoming  the  children  that 
are  born,  society  — 

LUCIE  [to  Brignac]  Stop!  Do  you  remember  what 
happened  lately,  not  a  hundred  miles  from  here  ?  I  mean 
about  the  servant  who  was  turned  out  into  the  street 
because  she  was  going  to  have  a  baby.  She  will  have 
to  go  to  some  hospital  for  her  confinement.  And  after 
that  what  will  happen  to  her  and  her  child? 

BRIONAC  [to  the  others]  Madame  Brignac  speaks  of 
something  which  took  place  recently  in  a  most  respect- 
able family.  The  incident  has  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  principles  we  are  defending.  It  is  clear  that 
one  cannot  have  a  servant  in  that  condition  in  a  well- 
kept  house.  And  there  are  higher  considerations  which 
will  always  prevent  a  respectable  citizen  from  even  ap- 
pearing to  condone  immorality  by  sheltering  it.  One 
must  not  offer  a  premium  to  evil-doing. 

CHEV.    Very  true. 

LUCIE.  And  the  unfortunate  girl,  who  is  very  likely 
only  the  victim  of  another  person,  is  condemned  by 
everyone. 

BRIGNAC  [timidly]  No,  no,  I  don't  say  that.  I  myself 
am  very  liberal,  and  I  confess  that  in  —  exceptional 
circumstances  —  one  should  be  indulgent  to  her. 

LUCIE.    Very  well.    Don't  forget  you  have  said  that. 

COL.  Good-night,  madame.  I  must  be  going.  Thank 
you  for  a  charming  evening. 


Act  II  Maternity  43 

CHEV.     I  also,  madame  —  charming. 

BRIGNAC  [pointing  to  the  door  into  his  office]  This 
way.  As  you  go  out  I  want  to  show  you  a  diagram  I  have 
had  done,  by  which  you  can  make  yourself  acquainted 
at  a  single  glance  with  the  political  conditions  of  the 
division.  There  is  an  arrangement  of  pins — [They 
hesitate]  One  minute.  It  will  only  take  a  minute.  You 
can  go  out  through  the  office.  One  minute  —  while  you 
are  putting  on  your  coats.  The  coats  are  in  there.  I  'm 
going  out  with  you  to  a  reception  at  the  club.  You  '11 
see  —  it 's  rather  curious.  [To  Lucie,  aside]  You  come 
too.  [Aloud]  I  think  the  idea  is  ingenious. 

He  talks  them  all  off.  When  they  are  gone  there  is  a 
short  pause,  and  then  Catherine  opens  the  door  at  the 
back  and  steps  forward. 

CATHERINE  [to  Annette,  who  has  come  into  the  ante- 
room] Yes,  mademoiselle,  they  are  all  gone. 

Annette  comes  in.  She  takes*  off  her  hat  and  cloak 
and  hands  them  to  Catherine,  who  takes  them  into  the 
anteroom  and  comes  back  to  turn  out  the  principal 
electric  lights  and  to  take  away  the  tray.  Annette, 
with  fixed,  staring  eyes,  sits  rigidly  upon  the  couch. 
Lucie  comes  in. 

LUCIE.    Annette !    Where  have  you  been  ? 

ANNETTE.     I  have  been  to  see  Jacques  Bernin. 

LUCIE.    You  have  seen  him  ?    You  have  spoken  to  him  ? 

ANNETTE.     I  went  to  his  father's  house. 

LUCIE.    Well? 

ANNETTE.     There  is  no  hope. 

LUCIE.    What  did  they  say  to  you? 

ANNETTE.  I  ought  n't  ever  to  tell  anyone  about  the 
two  hours  I  have  just  lived  through.  It 's  too  shameful. 
Too  vile.  What  I  can't  believe  is  that  all  that  really 
happened  to  me,  and  that  I  am  alive  still. 

LUCIE  [tenderly]     Tell  me  all  about  it. 

ANNETTE.    What 's  the  good  of  my  telling  you?    It 's 


44  Maternity  Act  II 

all  over.  There  's  nothing  left.  He  did  n't  love  me : 
he  never  loved  me.  He  's  gone.  He  's  going  to  marry 
another  woman. 

LUCIE.    He  's  gone? 

ANNETTE.  He  went  this  evening.  They  all  went.  M. 
and  Madame  Bernin  and  Gabrielle  dined  at  the  station; 
Jacques  dined  at  a  restaurant  with  some  friends.  I  went 
there.  I  sent  up  for  him.  From  where  I  was  standing, 
in  the  vestibule,  I  heard  their  jokes  when  the  waiter  gave 
him  my  message. 

LUCIE  [in  gentle  reproach]     Annette! 

ANNETTE.  I  wanted  to  know.  I  was  certain  his  people 
were  taking  him  away  by  force,  and  I  was  making  ex- 
cuses for  him.  I  was  certain  he  loved  me.  I  should  have 
laughed  if  anyone  had  told  me  he  would  n't  be  horrified 
when  he  heard  what  had  happened  to  me.  I  thought  that 
when  he  knew,  he  'd  take  my  hand,  and  go  with  me  to 
his  people,  and  say  "  Whether  you  wish  it  or  not,  here 
is  my  wife."  As  I  was  sure  it  would  end  like  that,  I 
thought  it  was  better  it  should  be  over  at  once.  I  ex- 
pected to  come  back  here  to  beg  your  pardon  —  to  kiss 
you  and  comfort  you. 

LUCIE.    And  what  did  he  say? 

ANNETTE  [without  listening']  I  think  I  Ve  gone  mad. 
All  that  happened,  and  I  'm  here.  I  'm  quiet:  I  'm  not 
crying:  it's  as  if  I  was  paralyzed. 

LUCIE.  You  said  you  sent  a  message  to  him  at  the 
restaurant  ? 

ANNETTE.    Yes. 

LUCIE.     Did  he  come? 

ANNETTE.  Yes.  He  said  he  thought  some  chorus-girl 
wanted  him. 

LUCIE.     Oh!    And  when  he  found  it  was  you? 

ANNETTE.  He  took  me  out  into  the  street  for  fear  I 
should  be  recognized,  and  I  had  to  explain  it  to  him  in 
the  street.  [_A  pause]  People  passing  by  stared  at  us, 


Act  II  Maternity  45 

and  some  of  them  laughed.  [With  passion  and  pain] 
Oh !  if  I  only  had  no  memory ! 

LUCIE.    Tell  me,  darling,  tell  me. 

ANNETTE  [with  violence]  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you.  You  '11 
despise  me  a  little  more ;  but  what  can  that  matter  to  me 
now?  First  he  pretended  not  to  understand  me:  he 
forced  me  to  say  it  quite  plainly :  he  did  it  on  purpose  — 
either  to  torture  me,  or  to  give  himself  time  to  think. 
You  '11  never  guess  what  he  said  —  that  it  was  n't  true. 

LUCIE.    Oh ! 

ANNETTE.  Yes,  that  it  was  n't  true.  He  got  angry, 
and  he  began  to  abuse  me.  He  said  he  guessed  what  I 
was  up  to;  that  I  wanted  to  make  a  scandal  to  force 
him  to  marry  me  —  oh,  he  spared  me  nothing  —  to  force 
him  to  marry  me  because  he  was  rich.  And  when  that 
made  me  furious,  he  threatened  to  call  the  police !  I 
ought  to  have  left  him,  run  away,  come  home,  ought  n't 
I  ?  But  I  could  n't  believe  it  of  him  all  at  once,  like  that ! 
And  I  could  n't  go  away  while  I  had  any  hope.  You  see, 
as  long  as  I  was  with  him,  nothing  was  settled:  as  long 
as  I  was  holding  to  his  arm  it  was  as  if  I  was  engaged. 
When  he  was  gone  I  should  only  be  a  miserable  ruined 
girl,  like  dozens  of  others.  Then  —  I  was  afraid  of 
making  him  angry:  my  life  was  at  stake:  and  to  save 
myself  I  went  down  into  the  very  lowest  depths  of  vile- 
ness  and  cowardice.  I  cried,  I  implored.  I  lost  all 
shame  and  I  offered  to  go  with  him  to  a  doctor  to-morrow 
to  prove  that  what  I  told  him  was  true.  And  what  he 
said  then  I  cannot  tell  you  —  not  even  you  —  it  was  too 
much  —  too  much  —  I  did  n't  understand  at  first.  It 
was  only  afterwards,  coming  back,  going  over  all  his 
words,  that  I  made  out  what  he  meant.  He  did  n't  be- 
lieve what  he  said.  He  could  n't  have  believed  what  he 
said.  At  any  rate  he  knows  that  I  am  not  a  girl  out  of 
the  streets.  But  at  first  I  did  n't  understand.  Then  — 
where  was  I  ?  I  don't  remember  —  At  last  he  looked  at 


46  Maternity  Act  II 

his  watch  and  said  he  had  only  just  time  to  catch  the 
train.  He  said  good-bye  and  started  off  at  a  great  pace 
to  the  station.  I  followed  him  imploring  and  crying. 
I  was  so  ashamed  of  my  cowardice.  It  was  horrible  and 
absurd !  I  could  n't  believe  it  was  the  end  of  everything. 
I  was  all  out  of  breath  —  almost  running  —  and  I  prayed 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  child,  for  the  sake  of  my  love,  of 
my  misery,  of  my  very  life;  and  I  took  hold  of  his  arm 
to  keep  him  back.  My  God !  what  must  I  have  looked 
like !  At  the  station  entrance  he  said,  "  Let  go  your  hold 
of  me."  I  said,  "  You  shall  not  go."  Then  he  rushed 
to  the  train,  and  jumped  into  a  carriage,  and  almost 
crushed  my  fingers  in  the  door;  and  he  went  and  hid 
behind  his  mother,  and  she  threatened  too  to  have  me 
arrested.  And  Gabrielle  sat  there  looking  white  and 
pretending  not  to  know  me.  I  came  back.  I  have  n't 
had  courage  enough  to  kill  myself,  but  I  wish  I  was 
dead !  [Breaking  into  sobs,  and  in  a  voice  of  earnest 
supplication']  Lucie,  dear,  I  don't  want  to  go  through 
all  that 's  coming  —  I  'm  too  little,  I  'm  too  weak,  I  'm 
too  young  to  bear  it.  Really,  I  have  n't  the  strength. 

LUCIE.  Annette  —  don't  say  that.  Hush,  my  darling, 
hush.  In  the  first  place,  everything  has  n't  been  tried. 
You  have  entreated  these  people ;  now  we  must  threaten. 

ANNETTE.    It  '11  be  no  use. 

LUCIE.  It  will  be  of  use.  The  way  they  're  hurrying 
away  shows  how  afraid  they  are  of  scandal.  As  soon  as 
my  husband  comes  in  I  will  tell  him  all  about  it. 

ANNETTE.     Oh,  my  God  ! 

LUCIE.  He  will  go  down  and  see  them.  He  will 
threaten  them  with  an  action.  They  will  give  in. 

ANNETTE.  We  can't  bring  an  action  against  them. 
He  told  me  so. 

LUCIE.  Then  there  are  other  ways  of  defending  you. 
Believe  me,  I  'm  sure  of  it. 

ANNETTE.    There  are  not. 


Act  II  Maternity  47 

LUCIE.  There  are.  And  even  if  there  were  n't,  you 
mustn't  talk  of  dying  at  your  age.  Am  I  not  here? 
Annette,  Annette,  my  little  one,  I  will  help  you  through 
this  trouble  !  You  believe  me,  don't  you  ?  You  know  how 
I  love  you?  You  know  that  mother  left  you  in  my  care? 
I  '11  help  you  and  comfort  you  and  love  you  so  well  that 
you  '11  forget. 

ANNETTE.     Forget ! 

LUCIE.  Yes,  yes;  people  forget.  If  it  weren't  for 
that  no  one  would  be  alive. 

ANNETTE.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lived  a  hundred  years. 
Life  is  hard,  hard;  too  hard. 

LUCIE.    Life  is  hard  for  all  women. 

ANNETTE.     It 's  worse  for  me  than  for  anyone  else. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  Annette !    If  you  only  knew ! 

ANNETTE.  When  I  Ve  seen  mothers  with  their  little 
children  I  've  had  such  dreams. 

LUCIE.  If  you  only  knew !  Those  mothers  had  their 
own  troubles.  Nearly  every  woman  carries  about  with 
her  the  corpse  of  the  woman  she  might  have  been. 

ANNETTE.    Ah,  Lucie,  dear,  it 's  easy  for  you  to  talk. 

LUCIE.  Darling,  you  must  n't  think  you  're  alone  in 
your  sorrow.  I  seem  to  you  to  be  happy  with  my  chil- 
dren and  my  husband,  and  you  think  my  happiness 
makes  light  of  your  distress.  But  you  're  wrong.  Your 
misery  makes  me  so  weak,  I  must  tell  you  what  I  wanted 
always  to  hide  from  you.  My  husband  does  not  love  me. 
I  don't  love  him.  Can  you  realize  the  loneliness  of  that  ? 
If  you  knew  what  it  means  to  live  with  an  enemy  and  to 
have  to  endure  his  caresses ! 

ANNETTE.    My  poor  dear! 

LUCIE.  So  you  see,  Annette,  you  must  n't  think  about 
dying,  because  perhaps  I  shall  want  your  help  as  much 
as  you  want  mine.  I  heard  the  door  shut.  It 's  Julien. 

ANNETTE.  Don't  tell  him:  please  don't.  Spare  me 
the  shame. 


48  Maternity  Act  II 

LUCIE.    Go  away,  now. 

ANNETTE.  You  Ve  given  me  back  a  little  hope.  Dear- 
est sister  help  me,  I  have  nobody  else. 

LUCIE.    Go! 

She  goes:   Brignac  comes  in. 

BRIGNAC  [making  for  the  door  of  his  office]  Not  gone 
to  bed  yet?  I  had  a  stroke  of  luck  at  the  club.  I  met 
the  editor  of  the  '  Independent '  and  I  promised  to  write 
him  an  article  about  the  minister's  circular  for  to-mor- 
row's paper.  An  official's  day  is  sometimes  pretty  full, 
eh? 

LUCIE.  Julien,  I  have  something  very  important  to 
tell  you.  A  great  misfortune  has  happened  to  us. 

BRIGNAC.     Good  heavens,  what  is  it?     The  children? 

LUCIE.     No,  it  has  to  do  with  Annette. 

BRIGNAC.  You  said  she  did  n't  come  to  dinner  because 
of  a  headache.  Have  you  been  concealing  something? 

LUCIE.  She  is  not  ill,  but  she  is  cruelly  and  grievously 
unhappy. 

BRIGNAC.  Nonsense!  Unhappiness  at  her  age!  A 
love  affair.  Some  marriage  she  had  set  her  heart  on. 

LUCIE.    Yes,  a  marriage  she  had  set  her  heart  on. 

BRIGNAC.  Ouf !  I  breathe  again.  What  a  fright  you 
gave  me  !  That 's  not  of  much  consequence. 

LUCIE.  Yes,  it 's  of  the  greatest  consequence.  Julien, 
I  appeal  to  your  heart,  to  your  kindliness,  to  your  best 
feelings. 

BRIGNAC.     But  what 's  the  matter? 

LUCIE.  Annette  made  the  mistake  of  trusting  entirely 
to  the  man  she  loved,  who  had  promised  to  marry  her. 
He  took  advantage  of  the  child's  innocent  love.  She  has 
been  seduced.  [In  a  low  voice]  Understand  me,  Julien, 
she  's  going  to  have  a  baby  in  six  months. 

BRIGNAC.    Annette ! 

LUCIE.    Annette. 

BRIGNAC.     It 's  impossible.     It 's  — 


Act  II  Maternity  49 

LUCIE.  She  is  certain  of  it.  She  told  me  about  it 
herself. 

BRIGNAC  [after  a  silence]     Who  is  it? 

LUCIE.     Jacques  Bernin. 

BRIGNAC  [furious]  Jacques  Bernin!  Well,  this  is  a 
nice  piece  of  work !  She  goes  it,  this  little  sister  of 
yours,  with  her  innocent  airs  ! 

LUCIE.    Don't  accuse  her.    Don't. 

BRIGNAC.  I  really  cannot  compliment  her !  I  'm 
nicely  repaid  for  all  I  've  done  for  her,  and  you  may 
thank  her  from  me  for  her  gratitude. 

LUCIE.     Oh,  don't  be  angry. 

BRIGNAC.  Well,  if  you  are  able  to  hear  news  like  this 
perfectly  calmly,  you  are  certainly  endowed  with  unusual 
self-control. 

LUCIE.  It  was  the  child's  innocence  that  made  the 
thing  possible. 

BRIGNAC.  I  daresay.  Go  and  tell  that  to  the  Chateau- 
neuf  people !  Besides,  if  she  was  so  innocent,  why  did  n't 
you  look  after  her  better  ? 

LUCIE.  But  it  was  you  who  were  always  urging  her 
to  go  to  the  Bernins. 

BRIGNAC.  In  another  minute  it 's  going  to  be  all  my 
fault!  I  was  glad  she  should  go  to  their  house  because 
I  thought  old  Bernin  might  be  useful  to  us.  How  should 
I  know  that  the  girl  could  n't  behave  herself  ? 

LUCIE.  [indignantly]  Oh,  hush!  I  tell  you  Annette 
is  the  victim  of  this  wretch.  If  you  are  going  to  do 
nothing  but  insult  her,  we  had  better  stop  discussing  the 
matter. 

BRIGNAC.  I  'm  in  a  nice  fix  now !  There  's  nothing 
left  for  us  but  to  pack  our  trunks  and  be  off.  I  'm  done 
for,  ruined  !  smashed  ! 

LUCIE.    You  exaggerate. 

BRIGNAC.  I  exaggerate !  I  tell  you  if  she  was  caught 
red-handed  stealing,  the  wreck  would  n't  be  more  com- 


50  Maternity  Act  II 

plete.  I  even  think  that  would  have  been  better. 
I  should  be  less  definitely  compromised,  and  less 
disqualified. 

LUCIE.  You  can  abuse  her  by  and  by:  the  business 
now  is  to  save  her.  The  Bernins  have  gone  away  this 
evening;  find  them  to-morrow;  and,  if  you  speak  to 
them  as  you  ought,  they  '11  understand  that  their  son 
must  marry  Annette. 

BRIGNAC.    But  Jacques  Bernin  is  engaged. 

LUCIE.    He  must  break  it  off,  that 's  all. 

BRIGNAC.  He  won't  break  it  off,  because  it  means  lots 
and  lots  of  money,  and  because  he  is  the  most  ferocious 
little  fortune-hunter  I  ever  met.  Yes,  he  is ;  I  know  him, 
I  see  him  at  the  club.  I  've  heard  him  holding  forth 
about  women  and  money;  his  opinions  are  edifying.  By 
the  way,  has  Annette  any  letters  from  him  connecting 
him  with  this  business? 

LUCIE.    No. 

BRIGNAC.  He  's  not  such  a  fool  as  to  compromise  him- 
self. He  '11  deny  everything. 

LUCIE.    You  must  threaten  them  with  a  scandal. 

BRIGNAC.     We  should  be  the  first  to  suffer  from  that. 

LUCIE.  But  we  must  do  something.  We  must  bring 
an  action. 

BRIGNAC.    There  is  no  affiliation  law  in  France. 

LUCIE.  You  refuse  to  go  and  see  what  can  be  done 
with  the  Bernins? 

BRIGNAC.  Not  at  all.  I  say  that  it  would  be  a  useless 
journey. 

LUCIE.    Then  what  are  we  to  do? 

BRIGNAC.  Not  a  soul  in  Chateauneuf  must  know  what 
has  happened.  Fortunately  we  have  a  little  time. 

LUCIE.    What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

BRIGNAC.  We  '11  see.  We  '11  think  it  over.  One 
does  n't  come  to  a  decision  of  this  importance  in  ten 
minutes. 


Act  II  Maternity  51 

LUCIE.  I  want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do. 
Your  point  of  view  surprises  me  so  much  that  I  wish  to 
understand  it  completely. 

BRIGNAC.  Understand  this,  then :  if  the  matter  is  kept 
secret,  it  is  only  our  misfortune;  if  it  becomes  public,  it 
will  be  a. scandal. 

LUCIE.    How  can  it  be  kept  secret? 

BRIGNAC.  We  must  pack  Annette  off  before  anyone 
suspects. 

LUCIE.    Where  is  she  to  go? 

BRIGNAC.  Ah !  that  's  the  devil.  Where  —  where  ? 
If  only  we  had  some  friends  we  could  trust,  in  some  out- 
of-the-way  place,  far  away.  But  we  have  n't.  Still,  we 
must  send  her  somewhere. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  my  God!     [She  sobs']. 

BRIGNAC  [irritated]  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  cry  like 
that.  That  does  n't  mend  matters.  We  must  make  some 
excuse.  We  '11  invent  an  aunt  or  a  cousin  who  's  invited 
her  to  stay.  I  will  find  a  decent  house  in  Paris  for  her 
to  go  to.  She  '11  be  all  right  there.  When  the  time  comes 
she  can  put  the  child  out  to  nurse  in  the  country,  and 
come  back  to  us.  I  shall  certainly  have  got  my  promo- 
tion by  that  time:  we  shall  have  left  this  place,  and  the 
situation  will  be  saved  —  as  far  as  it  can  be  saved. 

LUCIE.  You  propose  that  to  me  and  you  think  I  shall 
consent  to  it ! 

BRIGNAC.     Why  not? 

LUCIE.  You  Ve  not  stopped  to  think.  That 's  your 
only  excuse. 

BRIGNAC.    I  must  say,  I  don't  see  — 

LUCIE.  You  seriously  propose  to  send  that  poor  child 
to  Paris,  where  she  does  n't  know  a  soul  ? 

BRIGNAC.  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  I  will  go  to 
Paris  myself,  if  necessary.  There  are  special  boarding- 
houses  :  very  respectable  ones.  I  '11  inquire :  of  course 
without  letting  out  that  it  is  for  anyone  I  know.  And 


52  Maternity  Act  II 

I  '11  pay  what  is  necessary.  What  more  can  you  want? 
We  shall  be  sure  of  keeping  the  thing  quiet  that  way. 
I  believe  there  are  houses  in  Paris  subsidized  by  the 
State,  and  the  people  who  stay  in  them  need  not  even 
give  their  names. 

LUCIE.  I  tell  you,  you  Ve  not  stopped  to  think.  Just 
when  the  child  is  most  in  need  of  every  care,  you  propose 
to  send  her  off  alone ;  alone,  do  you  understand,  alone ! 
To  tear  her  away  from  here,  put  her  into  a  train,  and 
send  her  off  to  Paris,  like  a  sick  animal  you  want  to 
get  rid  of.  It  would  be  enough  to  make  her  kill 
herself. 

BRIGNAC.    Can  you  think  of  anything  better? 

LUCIE.  Everything  is  better  than  that.  If  I  con- 
sented to  that  I  should  feel  that  I  was  as  bad  as  the  man 
who  seduced  her.  Be  honest,  Julien:  remember  it  is 
in  our  interest  you  propose  to  sacrifice  her.  We  shall 
gain  peace  and  quiet  at  the  price  of  her  loneliness  and 
despair.  To  save  ourselves  trouble  —  serious  trouble, 
I  admit  —  we  are  to  abandon  this  child  to  strangers. 
She  does  not  know  the  meaning  of  harshness  or  unkind- 
ness  ;  and  we  are  to  drive  her  away  now  —  now,  of  all 
times !  Away  from  all  love  and  care  and  comfort,  with- 
out a  friend  to  put  kind  arms  round  her  and  let  her  sob 
her  grief  away.  I  implore  you,  Julien,  I  entreat  you, 
for  our  children's  sake,  don't  keep  me  from  her,  don't 
ask  me  to  do  this  shameful  thing.  I  will  not  do  it !  We 
must  do  something  else.  Make  me  suffer  if  you  like,  but 
don't  add  abandonment  and  loneliness  to  the  misery  of 
my  poor  little  helpless  sister. 

BRIGNAC.  There  would  have  been  no  question  of  mis- 
ery if  she  had  behaved  herself. 

LUCIE.  She  is  this  man's  victim!  But  she  won't  go. 
You  11  have  to  drive  her  out  as  you  drove  out  the  servant. 
Have  you  the  courage?  Just  think  of  what  her  life  will 
be.  Try  to  realize  the  long  months  of  waiting  in  that 


Act  II  Maternity  53 

dreadful  house:  the  slow  development  of  the  poor  little 
creature  that  she  will  know  beforehand  is  condemned  to 
all  the  risks  children  run  when  they  are  separated  from 
their  mothers.  And  when  she  is  torn  with  tortures,  and 
cries  out  in  that  fearful  anguish  I  know  so  well,  and 
jealous  death  seems  to  be  hovering  over  the  bed  of 
martyrdom,  waiting  for  mother  and  child;  just  when 
one  is  overcome  by  the  terror  and  amazement  of  the  mys- 
tery accomplished  in  oneself ;  then,  then  —  there  '11  be 
only  strangers  with  her.  And  if  her  poor  anguished  eyes 
look  round  for  an  answering  look,  perhaps  the  last;  if 
she  feels  for  a  hand  to  cling  to,  she  will  see  round  her 
bed  only  men  doing  a  duty,  and  women  going  through 
a  routine.  And  then  —  after  that  —  she  's  to  let  her 
child  go;  to  stifle  her  strongest  instinct;  to  silence  the 
cry  of  love  that  consoles  us  all  for  the  tortures  we  have 
to  go  through ;  to  turn  away  her  eyes  and  say  "  Take 
him  away,  I  don't  want  him."  And  at  that  price  she  's 
to  be  forgiven  for  another  person's  crime! 

BRIGNAC.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  can't  alter  the  world, 
can  I  ?  The  world  is  made  like  that.  If  Annette  was  ten 
times  more  innocent  she  could  n't  stay  here. 

LUCIE.     I  — 

BRIGNAC  [violently]  And  I  don't  choose  that  she  shall 
stay  here.  Do  you  understand?  I  'm  sorry  she  has  to 
go  by  herself  to  Paris.  But  once  more,  if  she  had  be- 
haved respectably  she  would  n't  be  obliged  to  do  it. 

LUCIE.    Oh ! 

BRIGNAC.  Can't  you  understand  that  she  would  suffer 
much  more  here,  surrounded  by  people  who  know  her, 
than  she  would  there,  where  she  would  be  unknown? 
Here  she  could  n't  so  much  as  go  down  the  street  without 
exposing  herself  to  insult.  Why,  if  she  even  went  to 
mass  or  to  a  concert  after  her  condition  became  evident, 
it  would  be  a  kind  of  provocation;  people  would  avoid 
her  as  if  she  had  the  plague.  Mothers  would  sneer  and 


54  Maternity  Act  II 

tell  their  daughters  not  to  look  at  her,  and  men  would 
smile  in  a  way  that  would  be  an  outrage. 

LUCIE.    If  necessary  she  can  stay  at  home. 

BRIONAC.  Stay  at  home !  Rubbish  !  What  would  be 
the  good  of  that?  Servants  would  talk,  and  the  scandal 
would  be  all  the  greater.  And  you  have  n't  reflected  that 
the  consequences  would  fall  upon  me.  You  have  n't 
troubled  to  consider  me,  or  to  remember  the  drawback 
this  will  be  to  me.  I  am  not  alluding  to  the  imbecile  jokes 
people  are  sure  to  make  about  the  apostle  of  re-popula- 
tion. But  our  respectability  will  be  called  in  question. 
People  will  remark  that  there  are  families  in  which  such 
things  don't  happen.  Political  hatred  and  social  prejudice 
will  help  them  to  invent  all  sorts  of  tales.  And  the  allu- 
sions, the  suggestions,  the  pretended  pity !  There  would 
be  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  send  in  my  resignation ! 

LUCIE.    Send  it  in. 

BRIGNAC.     Yes,  and  what  should  we  live  upon  then? 

LUCIE  [after  a  silence]  Then  that  is  society's  wel- 
come to  the  newborn  child ! 

BRIGNAC.  To  the  child  born  outside  marriage,  yes. 
If  it  was  n't  for  that  there  would  soon  be  nothing  but  ille- 
gitimate births.  It  is  to  preserve  the  family  that  society 
condemns  the  natural  child. 

LUCIE.  If  there  is  guilt  two  people  are  guilty.  Why 
do  you  only  punish  the  mother? 

BRIGNAC.  What  am  I  to  say  to  you  ?  Because  it 's 
easier. 

LUCIE.  And  that 's  your  justice !  The  truth  is,  you 
all  uphold  the  conventions  of  society.  You  do.  And  the 
proof  is  that  if  Annette  stayed  here  in  the  town  to  have 
her  baby,  you  'd  all  cry  shame  upon  her ;  but  if  she  goes 
to  Paris  and  has  it  secretly  and  gets  rid  of  it,  nobody 
will  blame  her.  Let 's  be  honest,  and  call  things  by  their 
names:  it  is  not  immorality  that  is  condemned,  but 
motherhood.  You  say  you  want  a  larger  number  of 


Act  II  Maternity  55 

births,  and  at  the  same  time  you  say  to  women  "  No 
motherhood  without  marriage,  and  no  marriage  without 
money."  As  long  as  you  've  not  changed  that  all  your 
circulars  will  be  met  with  shouts  of  derision  —  half  from 
hate,  half  from  pity ! 

BRIGNAC.    Possibly.    Good-night.    I  'm  going  to  work. 

LUCIE.  Listen  —  Then  you  drive  Annette  from  your 
house  ? 

BRIGNAC.  I  don't  drive  her  from  my  house.  I  beg  her 
to  go  elsewhere. 

LUCIE.    I  shall  go  with  her. 

BRIGNAC.    You  mean,  leave  me  ? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

BRIGNAC.    Then  you  don't  love  me. 

LUCIE.    No. 

BRIGNAC.    Ah !    Here  's  another  story.    Since  when  ? 

LUCIE.    I  never  loved  you. 

BRIGNAC.    You  married  me. 

LUCIE.    Not  for  love. 

BRIGNAC.    This  is  most  interesting.    Go  on. 

LUCIE.  You  're  another  victim  of  the  state  of  society 
you  are  defending. 

BRIGNAC.     I  don't  understand. 

LUCIE.  I  was  a  penniless  girl,  and  so  I  had  no  offers 
of  marriage.  When  you  proposed  to  me  I  was  tired  of 
waiting,  and  I  did  n't  want  to  be  an  old  maid.  I  ac- 
cepted you,  but  I  knew  you  only  came  to  me  because  the 
women  with  money  would  n't  have  you.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  love  you  and  be  loyal. 

BRIGNAC.     Well? 

LUCIE.  But  when  my  first  baby  came  you  deceived 
me.  Since  then  I  have  only  endured  you,  and  you  owe 
my  submission  to  my  cowardice.  It  was  only  my  first 
child  I  wanted,  the  others  you  forced  upon  me,  and 
when  each  was  coming  you  left  me.  It 's  true  I  was 
unattractive,  but  that  was  not  my  fault.  You  left  me 


56  Maternity  Act  II 

day  after  day  in  my  ugliness  and  loneliness,  and  when 
you  came  back  to  me  from  those  other  women,  you  were 
full  of  false  solicitude  about  my  health.  I  begged  for 
a  rest  after  nursing.  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  live  a  little 
for  myself,  to  be  a  mother  only  with  my  own  consent. 
You  laughed  at  me  in  a  vain,  foolish  way.  You  did  not 
consider  the  future  of  your  children  or  the  life  of  your 
wife,  but  you  forced  upon  me  the  danger  and  the  suffer- 
ing of  bringing  another  child  into  the  world.  What  was 
it  to  you?  Just  the  satisfaction  of  your  vanity.  You 
could  jest  with  your  friends  and  make  coarse  witticisms 
about  it.  Fool ! 

BRIGNAC.  That 's  enough,  thank  you.  You  're  my 
wife  — 

LUCIE.  I  '11  not  be  your  wife  any  longer,  and  I  won't 
have  another  child. 

BRIGNAC.    Why  ? 

LUCIE.  Because  I  've  just  found  out  what  the  future 
of  my  poor,  penniless  little  girls  is  to  be.  It 's  to  be 
Annette's  fate,  or  mine.  Oh,  to  think  I  've  been  cruel 
enough  to  bring  three  of  them  into  the  world  already ! 

BRIGNAC.  You  're  mad.  And  be  good  enough  not  to 
put  on  these  independent  airs.  They  're  perfectly 
useless. 

LUCIE.    You  think  so? 

BRIGNAC.  I  am  sure  of  it.  If  you  have  had  enough 
of  me,  get  a  divorce. 

LUCIE.     But  you  would  keep  the  children? 

BRIGNAC.  Naturally.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  as 
long  as  you  are  my  wife  before  the  world,  you  '11  be  my 
wife  really. 

LUCIE.  And  you  will  force  me  to  have  a  child  when- 
ever you  please? 

BRIGNAC.     Most  certainly. 

LUCIE.  My  God !  They  think  a  woman's  body  is  like 
the  clay  of  the  fields;  they  want  to  drag  harvest  after 


Act  II  Maternity  57 

harvest  from  it  until  it  is  worn  out  and  done  for!  I 
refuse  this  slavery,  and  I  shall  leave  you  if  you  turn  out 
my  sister. 

BRIGNAC.    And  your  children? 

LUCIE.     I  will  take  them  with  me. 

BRIGNAC.    And  their  food? 

LUCIE.     I  will  work. 

BRIGNAC.  Don't  talk  nonsense.  You  could  n't  earn 
enough  to  keep  them  from  starving.  It 's  late :  go  to 
bed. 

LUCIE   [her  teeth  clenched]     And  wait  for  you? 

BRIGNAC.  And  wait  for  me.  Precisely.  [He  goes 
out], 

LUCIE  [rushing  to  the  door  on  the  left]  Annette !  Oh, 
Annette !  There  's  nobody  to  help  us ! 


ACT    III 

A  court  house,  of  which  only  two  sides  are  visible. 
The  footlights  would  almost  correspond  with  a  line  drawn 
from  one  angle  to  the  opposite  one.  On  the  left,  to  the 
front,  is  the  raised  seat  of  the  public  Minister.  Further 
back,  to  the  left,  the  court.  Facing  the  audience,  succes- 
sively, counsels'  bench;  the  defendants'  bench,  a  little 
raised;  and  the  police  bench. 

In  the  centre,  facing  the  table  on  which  lie  the  "  pieces 
a  conviction,"  is  the  witness-box. 

To  the  extreme  right  are  three  or  four  benches,  of 
which  a  part  only  is  visible,  reserved  for  the  public.  The 
jury,  which  is  not  visible,  would  be  in  the  prompter's 
place. 

There  are  present  the  advocate-general;  the  president 
of  the  court  and  his  assessors;  also  the  counsel  for  the 
defence  and  some  junior  barristers.  In  the  dock  are 
Madame  Thomas,  Marie  Caubert,  Tupin,  Madame  Tupin, 
and  several  policemen.  Madame  Chevillot  is  among  the 
public. 

PRESIDENT  [authoritatively,  to  the  counsel  for  the  de- 
fence] Maitre  Verdier,  you  cannot  speak  now.  I  see 
what  line  you  propose  to  take  fpr  the  defence,  and  I  give 
you  fair  warning  that  I  shall  use  my  whole  power  and 
authority  to  prevent  you  from  making  light  of  the  crim- 
inal acts  attributed  to  the  defendants. 

COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE.  You  are  mistaken,  M. 
le  president.  I  have  no  intention  of  making  light  of 


Act  III  Maternity  59 

them.  On  the  contrary,  I  declare  definitely  that  in  my 
eyes  abortion  is  a  crime,  because  it  deprives  of  life  a 
creature  already  living;  and  to  condone  it  would  lead  to 
condoning  infanticide  also.  But  what  I  propose  to 
demonstrate  is  that  in  not  permitting  affiliation  and  in  not 
respecting  all  motherhood,  whatever  its  origin  may  be, 
society  has  lost  its  right  to  condemn  a  crime  rendered 
excusable  by  the  hypocrisy  of  custom  and  the  indifference 
of  the  laws. 

PRES.  This  is  not  the  time  for  your  address.  Let  the 
woman  Thomas  stand  up.  [To  Madame  Thomas]  So 
you  hunted  up  your  clients  in  the  provinces  ? 

MME.  THOMAS.  No,  M.  le  president.  They  came  and 
found  me. 

PRES.  We  shall  see.  Usher,  bring  forward  the  wit- 
ness —  [he  hunts  for  the  name  in  his  notes]  —  Madame 
Lucie  Brignac. 

MME.  CHEV.  [among  the  audience,  to  her  neighbor] 
Must  n't  Brignac  be  in  a  hurry  to  get  his  divorce ! 

Lucie  has  approached  the  witness-bar.  She  is  thinner 
and  older. 

PRES.     [to  the  usher]     Has  the  witness  been  sworn? 

USHER.    Yes,  M.  le  president. 

PRES.  [to  Lucie]  Was  it  of  her  own  free  will  that 
your  sister,  the  unfortunate  Annette  Jarras,  in  conse- 
quence of  whose  death  the  defendants  have  been  arrested, 
came  to  Paris  and  placed  herself  in  the  hands  of  this 
woman  ? 

LUCIE.     Yes,  M.  le  president. 

PRES.  Very  well.  Go  and  sit  down.  I  will  call  you 
again  presently.  [Lucie  retires  to  her  place,  sobbing] 
Marie  Caubert,  come  forward.  [A  small,  thin  woman 
rises].  Your  name  is  Marie  Caubert?  How  old  are 
you* 


SCHOOLMISTRESS.    Twenty-seven. 
PRES.     Profession? 


60  Maternity  Act  III 

SCH.    Schoolmistress. 

PRES.  You  have  come  from  the  country,  too:  do  you 
know  what  you  are  accused  of? 

SCH.    Yes,  M.  le  president. 

PRES.    What  have  you  to  say  in  your  defence  ? 

SCH.    I  did  not  know  I  was  doing  wrong. 

PRES.  Your  levity  amazes  me.  You  are  a  school- 
mistress, and  you  do  not  realize  that  the  sacred  mission 
with  which  you  are  entrusted,  the  mission  of  preparing 
citizens  and  citizenesses  for  the  glories  of  the  future, 
demands  that  your  life  should  be  exemplary.  You  are 
appointed  to  give  the  elementary  course  of  lessons  in 
civic  morality :  is  it  thus  that  you  practise  that  morality  ? 
You  have  no  answer  ?  According  to  the  notes  I  have  here 
you  insisted  upon  nursing  your  two  children  yourself. 
Do  you  love  them? 

SCH.    It  was  just  because  I  love  them. 

PRES.  But  you  decided  that  two  were  enough.  You 
ventured  to  limit  the  work  of  the  Creator. 

SCH.  I  should  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  have 
four  or  five  children. 

PRES.  Indeed!  Then  allow  me  to  inform  you  that 
you  've  not  taken  the  best  means  for  arriving  at  that 
desirable  result.  [He  laughs,  turning  to  his  assessor  on 
the  right,  who  laughs  also], 

SCH.    One  must  have  money  enough  to  bring  them  up. 

PRES.  Ah !  Stop  a  moment.  If  some  people  were  to 
make  that  bad  excuse  I  might  understand  it.  But  from 
you,  who  enjoy  the  inestimable  advantage  of  being 
under  the  protection  of  the  State,  I  do  not  understand  it. 
You  are  never  out  of  work. 

SCH.  I  earn  83  francs  a  month,  and  my  husband,  who 
teaches  too,  earns  the  same.  That  makes  166  francs  a 
month  to  live  on  and  to  rear  two  children.  When  there 
were  four  of  us  we  could  just  scrape  along,  but  with  five 
we  could  n't  have  managed  it. 


Act  III  Maternity  61 

PRES.  You  forget  to  mention  that  when  your  children 
are  coming  you  have  a  right  to  a  month's  holiday  on  full 
salary. 

SCH.  Yes,  at  one  time,  M.  le  president,  but  not  now. 
In  1900  a  ministerial  circular  announced  to  us  that  there 
was  not  enough  money,  and  we  could  practically  only 
have  holidays  at  half  salary.  To  get  the  whole  salary 
we  must  have  a  certificate  from  the  inspector,  giving 
reasons.  One  has  to  petition  for  it. 

PRES.    Well,  then  one  petitions. 

SCH.  It 's  hard  to  seem  like  a  beggar  simply  because 
one  has  children.  • 

PRES.    Oho !    You  're  proud. 

SCH.     That 's  not  illegal. 

PRES.  And  that 's  why  you  went  to  the  woman 
Thomas  ? 

SCH.  Yes,  monsieur.  My  husband  and  I  had  ar- 
ranged our  expenses  carefully.  On  the  evening  of  the 
day  we  were  paid  our  salary  we  used  to  divide  the  money 
into  little  portions  and  put  them  away.  So  much  for 
rent,  so  much  for  food,  so  much  for  clothing.  We  just 
managed  to  get  along  by  being  most  careful ;  and  several 
times  we  cut  down  expenses  it!  did  n't  seem  possible  to 
cut  down.  A  third  child  coming  upset  everything.  We 
could  n't  have  lived.  We  should  all  have  starved.  Be- 
sides, the  inspectors  and  directresses  don't  like  us  to  have 
many  children,  especially  if  we  nurse  them  ourselves. 
They  told  me  to  hide  myself  when  I  was  suckling  the 
last  one.  I  only  had  ten  minutes  to  do  it  in,  at  the  recre- 
ations at  ten  o'clock  and  at  two  o'clock;  and  when  my 
mother  brought  baby  to  me  I  had  to  shut  myself  up  with 
him  in  a  dark  closet. 

PRES.     All  that 's  irrelevant. 

COUN.  DBF.  No,  M.  le  president,  it  ought  to  be  known 
here  how  the  State,  which  preaches  increase  of  the  pop- 
ulation, treats  its  employes  when  they  have  children. 


62  Maternity  Act  III 

PRES.  [furious]  You  have  no  right  to  speak.  [To 
the  schoolmistress]  Have  you  anything  more  to  say? 

SCH.    No,  M.  le  president. 

PRES.     Then  sit  down.     Tupin,  stand  up. 

TUPIN  [a  working  man,  mean  and  wretched]  After 
you,  Calvon. 

PRES.    What !    What  did  you  say  ? 

TUPIN.  I  said  "  After  you,  Calvon."  Calvon  's  your 
name,  is  n't  it  ? 

PRES.  I  warn  you  I  shall  not  stand  any  insolence 
from  you. 

TUPIN.  I  say  to  you  "  After  you,  Calvon,"  as  you  say 
to  me  "  Tupin,  stand  up."1  If  that 's  insolence,  I  did  n't 
begin  it. 

PRES.  I  shall  have  you  turned  out  of  the  court. 
Stand  up. 

TUPIN  [standing]  There:  I'm  very  glad  to.  It'll 
take  the  stiffness  out  of  my  legs. 

PRES.    Your  profession? 

TUPIN.     Electrician. 

PRES.  You  were  once.  It  is  a  long  time  since  you 
worked  regularly. 

TUPIN.     I  can't  get  work. 

PRES.  Because  you  look  for  it  in  the  public  house. 
The  police  reports  about  you  are  the  most  unfavorable. 

TUPIN.  I  never  liked  the  police:  I  'm  not  surprised 
they  don't  like  me.  [Laughter  from  the  audience] 

PRES.  Silence !  or  I  shall  clear  the  court.  [  To 
Tupin]  The  name  of  your  wife,  Eugenie  Tupin,  has 
been  found  in  the  papers  of  the  woman  Thomas.  Where 
is  the  woman  Tupin?  Stand  up.  [To  Tupin]  That 
will  do,  sit  down.  You  attempted  to  conceal  her  from 
the  police. 

TUPIN.  I  thought  they  were  not  good  company  for 
her. 

PRES.    [pretending    not    to    hear   and   consulting    his 


Act  III  Maternity  63 

notes]  You  gave  yourself  up  and  declared  that  you 
yourself  took  her  to  this  woman's  house. 

TUPIN.     You  speak  like  a  book. 

PRES.  You  persistently  accused  yourself.  Did  you 
want  to  go  to  prison? 

TUPIN.  It 's  not  a  bad  place.  One 's  warm,  and 
there  's  food  at  every  meal. 

PRES.  It  is  true  that  prison  diet  is  better  than  your 
everyday  fare. 

TUPIN.     Now  you  're  talking. 

PRES.  [consulting  his  notes]  When  you  were  arrested 
you  were  both  completely  destitute.  What  remained  of 
your  furniture  had  been  sold,  and  you  were  entering  upon 
a  state  of  complete  vagabondage.  No  doub.t  you  also  will 
accuse  society.  You  are  an  unruly  person.  You  frequent 
Socialist  clubs ;  and  when  you  don't  affect  a  cynical  care- 
lessness in  your  language,  as  you  are  doing  now,  you  like 
to  repeat  the  empty  phrases  you  have  picked  up  from  the 
propagandist  pamphlets  which  are  poisoning  the  minds 
of  the  working  classes.  But  we  know  all  about  you ;  and 
if  you  are  a  victim,  you  are  the  victim  of  your  vices.  You 
drink. 

TUPIN.     I  have  taken  to  it  lately.    That 's  true. 

PRES.     You  confess  it.     Most  extraordinary. 

MME.  TUPIN.    What  does  that  prove? 

PRES.  Your  eldest  daughter  is  on  the  streets  and  one 
of  your  sons  has  been  sent  to  prison  for  a  year  for  theft. 
Is  that  true? 

TUPIN.     Possibly. 

PRES.  Not  quite  so  insolent  now.  I  congratulate  you. 
We  will  proceed.  You  took  your  wife  to  an  abortionist. 
Why? 

Tupitf.  Because  I  considered  that  bringing  seven  mis- 
erable little  devils  into  the  world  was  enough. 

PRES.  If  you  had  continued  to  be  the  honest  and 
laborious  workman  that  you  once  were  you  might  have 


64  Maternity  Act  III 

had  another  child,  without  that  child  being  necessarily 
a  miserable  little  devil. 

M  MI:.  TUPIN.    That  is  n't  true. 

TUPIN.    No,  monsieur.    After  four  it 's  impossible. 

PRES.     I  don't  understand  you. 

TUPIN.  What  I  say  is  that  a  workman's  family,  how- 
ever hard  they  work  and  screw,  can't  get  along  when 
there  are  five  children. 

PRES.  If  that  is  true  there  are  —  and  this  society  you 
despise  may  be  proud  of  it  —  there  are,  I  say,  many 
charities  on  the  watch,  so  to  speak,  for  the  destitute; 
and  they  make  it  a  point  of  honor  to  leave  none  without 
relief. 

TUPIN  [indignant]  Oh,  and  that  seems  all  right  to 
you,  does  it  ?  You  say  it 's  a  workman's  duty  to  work 
and  to  have  a  lot  of  children,  and  when  he  does  it,  fair 
and  square,  and  it  makes  a  beggar  of  him,  it  seems  to 
you  all  right ! 

PRES.  Ah,  ha !  Here  's  the  orator  of  the  public  house 
parlor.  In  the  first  place,  we  have  only  your  assertion 
that  a  workman's  family  cannot  live  when  there  are  five 
children.  But,  thank  God,  there  are  more  than  one  or 
two  in  that  condition  who  have  recourse  neither  to  charity 
nor  to  an  abortionist. 

MME.  TUPIN.    That 's  not  true. 

TUPIN.    Shall  I  prove  to  you  that  you  're  wrong  ? 

PRES.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  charge  against 
you. 

MME.  TUPIN.    Yes,  it  has. 

TUPIN.  I  beg  your  pardon.  If  I  prove  it  that  will 
explain  how  I  came  to  do  what  I  did. 

MME.  TUPIN.     I  should  think  so! 

PRES.    Very  well,  but  cut  it  short. 

TUPIN.  I  gave  my  lawyer  the  month's  account.  Please 
let  him  read  it  to  you. 

PRES.     Very  well. 


Act  III  Maternity  65 

The  counsel  for  the  defence  rises. 

COUN.    Here  it  is. 

PRES.    Stop.    You  're  not  Tupin's  counsel. 

COUN.  No,  M.  le  president.  But  my  learned  friends, 
with  a  confidence  which  honors  me,  and  for  which  I 
thank  them,  have  begged  me  to  take  over  the  conduct  of 
the  case  as  a  whole,  reserving  to  themselves  the  right  to 
discuss  important  matters  affecting  their  several  clients. 

PRES.  Then  I  give  you  permission  just  to  read  this 
document.  But  do  not  attempt  to  address  the  court. 
This  is  not  the  time.  You  can  read  the  paper  and  that 
is  all.  Do  you  understand  ? 

COUN.  I  perfectly  understand,  M.  le  president.  [He 
reads"].1 

DAILY  EXPENSES 

FOR  THE  MOTHER  AND  CHILDREN 

Breakfast.  f.  c. 

Milk,  20c.,  bread,  lOc.         0  80 

Dinner. 

Bread              0  70 

Wine                0  20 

Vegetables  and  dripping  for  soup 0  20 

Meat               0  60 

A  relish  for  the  children       ...         ...         ...         ...  0  25 

STJPPER  FOR  ALL  THE  FAMILY 

Stew     0  90 

Potatoes,  etc.             0  20 

Wine 0  40 

FOR  THE  HUSBAND 

Tramway  return  fare            0  30 

Tobacco          0  15 

Dinner  (out) v 1  25 

TOTAL'FOR  THE  DAT          5      45 

Comes  to  1989f.  25c.  per  annum 

1 A  shorter  version  of  this  document,  for  the  theatre,  will  be  found 
in  a  note  at  the  end. 


66  Maternity  Act  III 

YEARLY  EXPENSES 

Rent,  SOOf . 

Dress. —  Three  skirts  at  5f.;  three  bodices  at  Sf.;  sixteen 
pairs  of  boots  for  the  children  at  4f.  50c.  the  pair;  four  for 
the  parents  at  8f .  Two  hats  at  2f .  Underclothes  for  the 
mother,  5f.;  for  the  father,  15f.;  for  the  children,  30f.  Bed- 
ding and  linen,  lOf.  Clothes  of  the  father,  120f.-  Total, 
312f. 

The  expenses  are  therefore  2,600f.  a  year.  Tupin,  who 
was  a  capable  workman,  earned  175f.  a  month,  or  2,100f. 
a  year.  There  was  therefore  an  annual  deficit  of  SOOf. 
As  I  promised,  I  abstain  from  comment.  [He  sits  down] 

MME.  CHEV.  [to  her  neighbor]  There  were  three  sous 
a  day  for  tobacco  that  he  might  very  well  have  saved. 

COUN.  Perhaps  this  document  might  be  formally  put 
in  evidence. 

PRES.  It  is  quite  useless.  [To  Tupin]  I  am  not 
going  to  dispute  your  figures.  I  admit  them,  and  I  repeat 
there  are  charities. 

TUPIN.    And  I  repeat  that  I  'm  not  a  beggar. 

PRES.  You  prefer  to  commit  what  is  almost  infanti- 
cide. A  man  who  has  a  daughter  on  the  streets  and  a 
son  a  thief  may  accept  charity  without  degradation. 

MME.  TUPIN  [outraged]     Oh! 

TUPIN  [indignant]  In  those  days  they  were  not  what 
they  are  now.  If  they  fell  so  low  it  was  because  I  had 
too  many  children  and  I  could  n't  look  after  my  boy ;  and 
because  my  girl  was  deserted  and  starving.  But  you 
must  be  made  of  stone  to  throw  that  in  my  teeth. 

And  if  you  took  to  drinking  it 's  not  your  fault  either, 
I  suppose? 

TUPIN.  I  want  to  explain  about  that.  When  we  began 
to  get  short  in  the  house  my  wife  and  I  started  to  quarrel. 
Every  time  a  child  came  we  were  mad  at  making  it  worse 
for  the  others.  And  so  —  I  need  n't  make  a  long  story 
of  it  —  I  ended  up  in  the  saloon.  It 's  warm  there,  and 


Act  III  Maternity  67 

you  can't  hear  the  children  crying  nor  the  mother  com- 
plaining. And  besides,  when  you  've  drink  in  you  you 
forget. 

MME.  TUPIN.  It 's  the  sort  of  thing  that  it 's  good  to 
forget. 

TUPIN.  And  that 's  how  we  got  poorer  and  poorer. 
My  fault  if  you  like. 

PRES.    And  the  last  child,  what  about  that? 

MME.  TUPIN.    Oh,  the  last. 

TUPIN.    The  last?    He  cost  us  nothing. 

PRES.  [carelessly]     Eh? 

MME.  TUPIN.    No. 

TUPIN.  No,  he  was  a  cripple.  He  was  born  in  starva- 
tion, and  his  mother  was  worn  out. 

PRES.    And  his  father  was  a  drunkard. 

TUPIN.  Maybe.  Anyway  that  one,  the  sickly  fellow, 
wanted  for  nothing.  They  took  him  into  the  hospital. 
They  would  n't  let  me  take  him  away. 

MME.  TUPIN.     He  was  a  curiosity  for  the  doctors. 

TUPIN.  And  they  nursed  him  and  they  nursed  him 
and  they  nursed  him.  They  did  n't  leave  him  a  minute. 
They  made  him  live  in  spite  of  himself.  And  they  let 
the  other  children  —  the  strong  ones  —  go  to  the  bad. 
With  half  the  money  and  the  fuss  they  wasted  on  the 
cripple  they  could  have  made  fine  fellows  of  all  the 
others. 

PRES.  And  was  that  the  reason  you  did  away  with  the 
next  ? 

MME.  TUPIN.  For  all  the  good  he  'd  have  got  out  of 
this  world  he  might  thank  me  for  not  letting  him  come 
into  it. 

PRES.    He  should  never  have  been  created. 

TUPIN.     That 's  true. 

PRES.  If  everyone  was  like  you  the  country  would 
soon  go  to  the  dogs.  But  you  don't  trouble  yourself 
much  about  the  country,  I  expect. 


68  Maternity  Act  III 

TUPIN.  Someone  said  "  A  man's  country  is  the  place 
where  he  's  well  off."  I  'm  badly  off  everywhere. 

PRES.  You  are  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  good  of 
humanity. 

TUPIN.  Humanity  had  better  come  to  an  end  if  it 
can't  get  on  without  a  set  of  miserable  wretches  like  me. 

PRES.  The  jury  thoroughly  appreciate  your  moral 
sense.  You  can  sit  down. 

Evening  has  come.     The  ushers  bring  lamps. 

PRES.  [to  Madame  Tupin~\  Have  you  anything  more 
to  say? 

MME.  TUPIN.  I  have  to  say  that  all  this  is  not  my 
fault.  My  husband  and  I  worked  like  beasts;  we  did 
without  every  kind  of  pleasure  to  try  and  bring  up  our 
children.  If  we  had  wanted  to  slave  more  I  declare  to 
you  we  could  n't  have  done  it.  And  now  that  we  've 
given  our  lives  for  them,  the  oldest  is  in  hospital  ruined 
and  done  for  because  he  worked  in  a  "  dangerous  trade  " 
as  they  call  it ! 

PRES.     Why  didn't  you  put  him  into  something  else? 

MME.  TUPIN.  Because  there  's  no  work  anywhere  else. 
They  're  full  up  everywhere  else.  There  are  too  many 
people  in  the  world.  My  little  girl  is  a  woman  now  like 
lots  of  others  in  Paris.  She  had  to  choose  between  that 
and  starving.  She  chose  that.  I  'm  only  a  poor  woman, 
and  I  know  what  it  means  to  have  nothing  to  eat,  so  I 
forgave  her.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  sometimes  she  's 
hungry  all  the  same. 

TUPIN.    And  they  say  God  blesses  large  families ! 

PRES.  [from  his  notes']  Two  others  of  your  children 
are  dead.  The  two  youngest  are  out  at  nurse. 

MME.  TUPIN.  Yes.  They  were  taken  away  as  soon 
as  they  were  born.  All  I  know  about  them  is  the  post- 
office  order  I  send  every  month  to  the  woman  who  's 
bringing  them  up.  Oh,  it 's  cruel !  It 's  cruel !  It 's 
cruel !  [She  sits  down] 


Act  III  Maternity  69 

PRES.  We  have  now  only  to  examine  the  case  of  An- 
nette Jarras.  Let  the  woman  Thomas  stand  up.  [To 
Madame  Thomas]  This  was  your  victim.  She  was  nine- 
teen, quite  young,  and  in  perfect  health.  Now  she  is  in 
her  grave.  What  have  you  to  say? 

MME.  THOMAS  [quietly'}     Nothing. 

PRES.  You  don't  excite  yourself.  Oh,  we  know  you 
are  not  easily  moved. 

MME.  THOMAS.  If  I  told  you  that  it  was  pity  made  me 
do  it,  you  would  n't  believe  me. 

PRES.  Probably  not.  But  at  any  rate  you  might  try. 
Every  accused  person  has  a  right  to  say  whatever  he  can 
in  his  own  defence:  of  course  under  the  control  of  the 
president  of  the  court. 

MME.  THOMAS.     It  is  n't  worth  while. 

PRES.  Oh,  yes.  Let  us  hear.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
jury  are  listening. 

MME.  THOMAS  [after  a  sign  from  her  counsel]  A  girl 
came  to  me  one  day;  she  was  a  servant.  She  had  been 
seduced  by  her  master.  I  refused  to  do  what  she  asked 
me  to  do:  she  went  and  drowned  herself.  Another  I 
refused  to  help  was  brought  up  before  you  here  for  in- 
fanticide. Then  when  the  others  came,  I  said  Yes.  I  've 
prevented  many  a  suicide  and  many  a  crime. 

PRES.  So  that 's  your  line  of  defence.  It  is  in  pity, 
in  charity,  that  you  have  acted.  The  prosecution  will 
answer  that  you  have  never  failed  to  exact  payment  for 
your  services,  and  a  high  payment. 

MME.  THOMAS.  And  you?  Don't  they  pay  you  for 
condemning  other  people  ? 

PRES.  Those  you  condemn  to  death  and  execute  your- 
self are  all  innocent. 

MME.  THOMAS.  You  prosecute  me,  but  you  decorate 
the  surgeons  who  trade  in  sterility. 

PRES.  Be  silent.  Sit  down.  Madame  Lucie  Brignac. 
[Lucie  comes  forward,  in  great  emotion]  Calm  your- 


70  Maternity  Act  III 

self,  madame,  and  tell  us  what  you  know.  You  are  called 
for  the  defence. 

LUCIE.    It  was  I,  monsieur,  who  asked  to  be  heard. 

I'KMS.    Speak  up,  madame,  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say. 

LUCIE  [louder]  It  was  I,  monsieur,  who  asked  to  be 
heard.  I  wanted  to  defend  the  memory  of  my  little  one. 
I  fear  now  I  shall  not  have  the  strength.  [She  controls 
herself]  Annette  was  seduced  by  the  man  who  had  prom- 
ised to  marry  her.  She  lived  with  us.  When  my  hus- 
band knew  that  my  sister  was  in  a  certain  condition,  he 
wished  to  send  her  away.  I  was  indignant,  and  I  left  his 
house  with  her  and  my  children.  We  went  to  Bordeaux. 
We  had  a  few  hundred  francs,  and  we  thought  we  could 
work  for  our  living.  [She  stops] 

PRES.    Well? 

LUCIE.  Our  money  was  soon  spent.  Annette  was  giv- 
ing some  music  lessons ;  they  guessed  her  condition  and 
they  sent  her  away.  I  did  some  sewing. 

PRES.    And  earned  some  money? 

LUCIE.  I  could  n't  always  get  work.  WTien  I  got  it,  I 
was  paid  fifteen  cents  for  twelve  hours.  I  was  not 
a  skilled  worker.  Some  people  get  twenty-six  cents. 
We  were  in  despair,  thinking  of  the  child  that  was 
coming. 

PRES.  That  was  not  a  reason  for  leading  your  sister 
and  her  child  to  their  deaths !  [Lucie  is  seised  with  a 
nervous  trembling  and  does  not  answer]  Answer ! 

COUN.  DBF.  Give  her  a  moment  to  recover,  M.  le 
president. 

LUCIE  [controlling  herself]  I  wanted  to  get  her  into 
a  hospital,  but  they  only  take  them  at  the  end.  It  seems 
there  are  homes  one  can  go  to  in  Paris,  but  not  in  the 
provinces. 

PRES.    You  could  have  applied  for  charity. 

LUCIE.  Six  months'  residence  was  necessary.  And 
then,  what  should  we  have  done  with  the  child  ? 


Act  III  Maternity  71 

PRES.  As  it  was  impossible  for  you  to  bring  it 
up,  your  sister  could  have  taken  it  to  a  foundling 
hospital. 

LUCIE.  Abandon  it  —  yes,  we  thought  of  that.  We 
made  inquiries. 

COUN.  DBF.  It  is  necessary  to  get  a  certificate  of 
indigence,  and  then  make  an  application  to  the  board  of 
admission.  They  inquire  into  the  case  and  admit  or  re- 
ject. The  child  may  die  meanwhile. 

LUCIE.  And  they  make  a  condition  that  the  mother 
shall  not  know  where  her  child  is.  That  she  shall  never 
see  it  or  hear  of  it  again.  Only  once  a  month  she  will  be 
told  if  it  is  alive  or  dead.  Nothing  more. 

PRES.    Proceed,  madame. 

LUCIE.  Then  I  brought  my  children  back  to  my  hus- 
band, because  we  had  nothing  left.  I  went  to  see  the 
parents  of  the  young  man,  who  is  the  cause  of  every- 
thing. They  practically  turned  me  out  of  doors.  The 
young  man  is  going  to  be  married. 

COUN.  DBF.    May  I  say  a  word,  M.  le  president? 

PRES.    You  are  sure  it  is  only  a  word  ? 

COUN.  DBF.  Yes,  M.  le  president.  All  the  guilty  are 
not  in  court.  I  look  in  vain  for  the  seducer  of  this  poor 
girl.  He  is  waiting  anxiously  in  the  provinces  to  hear  the 
result  of  this  trial,  fearing  his  name  may  come  out.  I 
have  received  from  him  and  from  his  family  an  imploring 
letter,  entreating  me  to  spare  him  and  not  to  mention 
him  by  name  during  the  proceedings.  Until  now,  as  a 
matter  of  fact  his  name  has  not  been  mentioned,  and  we 
are  at  the  end  of  the  trial.  Well,  I  am  going  to  make  it 
known  at  once.  I  shall  have  no  more  pity  for  the  family 
and  the  intended  wife  of  this  criminal,  than  he  had  for 
the  woman  who  is  dead,  and  for  the  woman  whose  life 
he  has  ruined.  If  there  is  no  law  in  the  Code  of  this 
country  which  can  reach  him,  there  will  be  at  least  indig- 
nation enough  in  the  hearts  of  all  honest  people  to  pre- 


72  Maternity  Act  III 

vent  Jacques  Bernin  from  enjoying  in  peace  the  happi- 
ness he  has  stolen !  [Prolonged  applause] 

PRES.  [to  Lucie]  Proceed,  madame.  [Pause]  Kindly 
conclude  your  evidence. 

LUCIE.  I  implored  my  husband  to  take  us  back,  An- 
nette and  me.  He  would  n't.  We  came  to  Paris  with  a 
little  money  he  gave  me.  It  was  too  soon  for  them  to  take 
Annette  into  one  hospital:  in  another,  where  they  would 
have  taken  her,  there  was  no  room.  My  husband  filed  a 
petition  for  divorce. 

PRES.  Kindly  tell  us  about  what  concerns  the  woman 
Thomas. 

LUCIE  [with  growing  emotion]  Yes,  monsieur.  An- 
nette was  always  reproaching  herself  with  having  ac- 
cepted what  she  called  my  sacrifice.  She  kept  saying 
she  was  the  cause  of  all  my  troubles.  [A  silence]  One 
day  they  came  to  fetch  me,  and  I  found  her  dead  at  this 
woman's  house.  [In  a  burst  of  sobs,  which  become 
hysterical,  she  cries  out]  My  little  sister,  my  poor  little 
sister ! 

PRES.  [kindly,  to  the  usher]  Take  her  back  to  her 
place,  or,  if  necessary,  take  her  outside  and  do  all  you 
can  for  her.  [To  the  defendants]  Then  none  of  you 
has  any  more  to  say  in  your  defence  ? 

TUPIN  [excited]  Oh,  if  we  said  all  we  've  got  to  say 
we  should  be  here  until  to-morrow  morning! 

MME.  TUPIN  [the  same]     That  we  should ! 

TUPIN  [shouting]     We  should  never  stop ! 

PRES.  I  call  upon  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  for 
his  speech. 

SCH.  But,  monsieur,  you  are  not  going  to  condemn 
me  ?  It 's  not  possible.  I  have  n't  said  everything. 

TUPIN.     We  're  not  the  guilty  ones. 

SCH.  I  'm  afraid  of  getting  a  bad  name.  And  we 
had  n't  the  means  to  bring  up  another. 

MME.  TUPIN  [violently,  much  excited]     Shut  up !    As 


Act  III  Maternity  73 

it 's  like  that  —  as  that 's  what  they  do  to  our  children  — 
as  men  have  found  nothing  to  change  that  —  we  must 
do  it  —  the  women  must  do  it.    We  must  start  the  great 
strike  —  the  strike  —  the  strike  of  the  mothers. 
Cries  in  the  audience,  "  Yes,  yes." 

PRES.    Silence. 

MME.  TUPIN  [shouting]  Why  should  we  kill  ourselves 
to  get  wage-slaves  and  harlots  for  other  people? 

TUPIN.     We  're  not  the  guilty  ones. 

PRES.    I  did  not  — 

MME.  THOMAS.  And  all  the  men  that  seduced  the  girls 
I  saved  —  have  you  punished  them? 

PRES.    Sit  down. 

TUPIN.  The  guilty  ones  are  the  people  that  tell  us  to 
have  more  children  when  the  ones  we  have  are  starving. 

COUN.  DBF.  The  seducers  are  the  guilty  ones;  and 
social  hypocrisy. 

During  the  proceedings,  anger,  which  rapidly  becomes 
fury,  has  taken  possession  of  the  defendants.  They  are 
all  on  their  feet  except  the  schoolmistress,  who  goes  on 
sobbing  and  murmuring  to  herself  unintelligibly.  The 
president,  also  standing,  strikes  his  desk  with  a  paper- 
knife,  trying  to  impose  silence.  He  shouts,  but  cannot 
make  himself  heard.  The  tumult  increases  until  the  cur- 
tain falls.  The  voices  of  the  counsel  for  the  defence  and 
the  defendants  drown  those  of  the  president  and  the 
counsel  for  the  prosecution. 

MME.  THOMAS.  The  fine  gentlemen  that  get  hold  of 
them  and  humbug  them ! 

PRES.    I  will  have  you  taken  back  to  prison. 

MME.  THOMAS.  And  the  rich  young  man,  and  the  old 
satyrs  —  and  the  men !  The  men !  All  the  men ! 

COUNSEL  FOR  THE  PROSECUTION.  Police,  can't  you 
silence  these  lunatics  ? 

COUN.  DBF.  You  have  no  right  to  insult  the  defend- 
ants. 


74  Maternity  Act  III 

TUPIN.  They  Ve  been  doing  nothing  else  the  whole 
time. 

COUN.  PROS.  Keep  his  rabble  quiet !  The  defendants 
must  respect  the  law. 

COUN.  DBF.    And  you,  sir,  must  respect  justice. 

COUN.  PROS.  You  sympathize  with  their  crime.  I  am 
outraged  by  it. 

COUN.  DEF.  They  are  right.  They  are  not  guilty. 
You  must  respect  — 

COUN.  PROS.    I  demand  — 

COUN.  DEF.  Our  customs  are  guilty,  which  denounce 
the  unmarried  mother ! 

AUDIENCE.    Bravo !    Hear,  hear ! 

CouN.  PROS.  I  demand  that  the  counsel  for  the 
defence  — 

COUN.  DEF.  Every  woman  with  child  should  be  re- 
spected, no  matter  what  the  circumstances  are. 
[Applause] 

PRES.  Maitre  Verdier,  by  article  forty-three  of  the 
regulations  — 

COUN.  DEF.  Their  crime  is  not  an  individual  crime,  it 
is  a  social  crime. 

COUN.  PROS.    It  is  a  crime  against  nature. 

COUN.  DEF.  It  is  not  a  crime  against  nature.  It  is  a 
revolt  against  nature. 

PRES.  Police,  remove  the  defendants.  [The  police  do 
not  understand  or  do  not  hear]  Maitre  Verdier,  must 
we  employ  force?  [Tumult  in  the  whole  court] 

COUN.  DEF.  [rhetorically]  It  is  a  revolt  against  na- 
ture !  And  with  all  the  warmth  of  a  heart  melted  by  pity, 
with  all  the  indignation  of  my  outraged  reason,  I  look 
for  that  glorious  hour  of  liberation  when  some  master 
mind  shall  discover  for  us  the  means  of  having  only  the 
children  we  need  and  desire,  release  us  for  ever  from  the 
prison  of  hypocrisy  and  absolve  us  from  the  profanation 
of  love.  That  would  indeed  be  a  conquest  of  nature  — 


Act  III  Maternity  75 

savage  nature  —  which  pours  out  life  with  culpable  pro- 
fusion, and  sees  it  disappear  with  indifference.  But, 
until  then  — 

The  tumult  recommences. 

PRES.  Police,  clear  the  court!  Police  —  police,  re- 
move the  defendants.  The  sitting  is  suspended.  [The 
magistrates  cover  their  heads  and  rise], 

MME.  THOMAS.  It 's  not  I  who  massacre  the  inno- 
cents !  /  'm  not  the  guilty  one ! 

SCH.    Mercy,  monsieur,  mercy! 

MME.  TUPIN.    She  's  not  the  guilty  one ! 

TUPIN.    She  's  right.    She  's  not ! 

MME.  THOMAS.     It 's  the  men !  the  men !  all  the  men ! 

The  magistrates  go  out  by  the  narrow  door  reserved 
for  them,  the  backs  of  their  red  robes  disappearing 
slowly  during  the  last  words. 


TUPIN'S  BUDGET  (CONDENSED). 

The  daily  food  of  the  mother  and  the  five  children  consists  of  a  loaf 

of  bread,  soup  made  of  dripping  and  vegetables,  and  a  stew. 

Total  cost,  8f.  75c. 
The  husband's  expenses  are:   carfare,  30c.;   tobacco,  15c.;  lunch, 

If.  25c. 
General  expenses  of  the  family:  rent,  300f.;  clothing,  linen,  boots 

(sixteen  pairs  for  the  children  at  4f.  50c.  the  pair,  four  for  the 

parents  at  8f.),  are  again  300f. 
Annual  total,  2,600f. 


THE    THREE   DAUGHTERS 
OF    M.   DUPONT 

[Les  Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont] 

Translated  by 
ST.   JOHN   HANKIN 


Cast  of  the  original  production  before  the  Stage 
Society  at  the  King's  Hall,  London,  on  March  12,  13 
and  14,  1905. 

MME.  DUPONT Kate  Bishop 

COURTHEZON Leon  M.  Lion 

CAROLINE Italia  Conti 

JULIE Ethel   Irving 

M.  DUPONT O.  B.  Clarence 

JUSTINE Lois   Crampton 

M.  MAIRAUT Arthur  Chesney 

MME.  MAIRAUT Agnes  Thomas 

ANTONIN  MAIRAUT Charles  V.  France 

LIONOL Lewis  Carson 

M.  POUCHELET G.  M.  Graham 

MME.  POUCHELET Dora  Barton 

FRANCOISE Florence  Adale 

ANGELE.  .  Gertrude  Burnett 


ACT    I 

A  very  undistinguished  room  in  a  house  in  a  French 
country  town.  The  time  is  February.  There  is  in  the 
centre  of  the  room  a  table,  with  chairs  round  it;  a  fire- 
place on  the  left,  and  window  on  the  right;  a  piano; 
lamps;  a  bronze  statuette  of  Gutenberg;  holland  covers 
on  the  furniture.  There  are  doors  to  right  and  left  and 
at  the  back^ 

Madame  Dupont  is  discovered  alone,  darning  stock- 
ings. After  a  moment  or  two  Courthezon  comes  in,  with 
some  papers  in  his  hand. 

COURTHEZON.  Why,  you  're  all  alone,  Madame 
Dupont  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes,  M.  Courthezon. 

COURTHEZON.  Your  young  ladies  are  listening  to  the 
band? 

MME.  DUPONT.  No:  Julie  has  gone  to  pay  a  call,  and 
Caroline  is.  at  Benediction.  She  goes  every  Sunday. 

COURTHEZON.    Oh,  yes,  of  course. 

MME.  DUPONT.  On  Sunday  we  never  see  her,  except 
at  dejeuner.  The  rest  of  the  day  she  's  at  church.  I  be- 
lieve she  never  misses  a  service.  And  now  she  is  one  of 
the  Enfants  de  Marie.  At  her  age,  too ! 

COURTHEZON.    How  old  is  she? 

MME.  DUPONT.     Thirty-three. 

COURTHEZON.    And  still  very  religious  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Very. 

COURTHEZON.  [nodding]  Her  mother  was  just  the 
same. 

79 


80  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

MME.  DUPONT.    You  remember  my  husband's  first  wife  ? 

COURTHEZON.  Yes.  I  came  to  the  printing  office  two 
years  before  she  died.  [Pause]  M.  Dupont  is  at  his 
game  at  the  Cafe  du  Commerce,  no  doubt?  I  should  be 
there  myself  if  I  could  afford  it. 

MME.  DUPONT.    You  have  your  savings. 

COURTHEZON.  Precisely;  and  I  don't  want  to  lose 
them.  But  you  are  working,  Madame  Dupont? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Mending  some  stockings.  One  must 
find  something  to  do. 

COURTHEZON.    I  've  been  hard  at  it,  too,  all  day. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Still  at  your  invention? 

COURTHEZON.  Yes.  I  tell  you  it 's  splendid.  I  Ve 
been  downstairs  to  the  printing  office  to  see  if  there  were 
any  orders. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Were  there  any? 

COURTHEZON  [looking  through  papers  in  his  hand] 
Three  hundred  visiting  cards,  a  price  list,  and  an 
announcement. 

MME.  DUPONT  [stopping  her  work]     Death?     Birth? 

COURTHEZON.    Neither.    A  marriage. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Give  it  me.  [Reads  paper  which 
Courthezon  gives  her]  M.  Jacquemin !  M.  Jacquemin ! 
And  who  is  this  Mile.  Martha  Violet  whom  he  is 
marrying  ? 

COURTHEZON.    One  of  the  Violets  of  the  Rue  du  Pre. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  [To  Courthezon, 
who  makes  as  if  to  take  back  the  paper]  Leave  it  with 
me.  I  will  send  it  down  to  you.  I  want  to  show  it  to 
Julie.  So  you  are  pleased  with  your  invention? 

COURTHEZON  [sitting  down]  I  am  delighted  with  it. 
Delighted !  I  've  been  working  at  it  twenty  years  !  And 
now  it 's  finished.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? 

Enter  Caroline.  She  is  tall,  stringy,  not  pretty,  not 
attractive,  but  not  absurd.  She  has  a  prayer-book  in  her 
hand. 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  81 

MMK.  DUPONT  [carelessly,  to  Courthezon,  who  has 
stopped]  Go  on.  It 's  only  Caroline.  [Interested] 
And  you  still  won't  tell  us  what  it  is  ? 

COURTHEZON.  Not  yet.  [Rising,  bowing  to  Caro- 
line] Good-day,  Mile.  Caroline. 

CAROLINE  [half  returning  his  bow]  Good-day,  M. 
Courthezon. 

MME.  DUPONT.    I  can  imagine  how  pleased  you  are. 

COURTHEZON.    Of  course  I  am. 

CAROLINE.     You  have  finished  your  invention? 

COURTHEZON.     Yes.     How  did  you  guess? 

CAROLINE  [a  little  confused]     Oh,  only  — 

COURTHEZON.     Only? 

CAROLINE  [in  a  lower  voice]     Only  that  I  knew  it. 

COURTHEZON.    You  knew  it? 

CAROLINE  [confused]  Yes.  But  never  mind  about 
that. 

MME.  DUPONT  [to  Courthezon]  And  now  you  will 
become  a  rich  man,  eh,  M.  Courthezon? 

COURTHEZON.  Not  all  at  once.  I  must  first  find  some- 
one who  will  buy  my  invention,  or  who  will  advance  me 
money  to  push  it  for  myself.  But  there  's  plenty  of  time 
to  think  of  all  that:  and  whether  I  succeed  or  not,  I  am 
glad  to  have  given  twenty  years  of  my  life  to  inventing 
something  that  will  make  life  a  little  easier  for  those  who 
will  come  after  me.  And  now  I  am  going  downstairs  to 
the  office  to  do  a  little  work.  You  '11  send  down  that  an- 
nouncement, won't  you? 

MME.  DUPONT.    I  won't  forget. 

COURTHEZON.  Good-evening,  Madame  Dupont.  Good- 
evening,  Mile.  Caroline. 

CAROLINE  and  MME.  DUPONT.  Good-evening,  M. 
Courthezon. 

Courthezon  goes  out. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Why  were  you  so  sure  he  had  com- 
pleted his  invention? 


82  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

CAROLINE  [confused,  after  a  moment's  silence]  You 
won't  tell  anyone,  mother? 

MME.  DUPONT.    No. 

CAROLINE.     Because  I  prayed  for  it. 

MME.  DUPONT  [not  spitefully,  but  with  a  slight  shrug 
of  the  shoulders]  I  see. 

Julie  comes  in, 

JULIE.  Here  I  am,  maman  [she  kisses  her].  You 
here,  Caro?  [She  does  not  kiss  her]. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Ah,  Julie!  Sit  down,  dear,  and  tell 
me  what  you  have  been  doing  and  whom  you  have  seen. 
[Her  warm  greeting  to  Julie  contrasts  markedly  with  the 
cold  reception  she  previously  gave  to  Caroline], 

JULIE.     I  went  to  see  Madame  Leseigneur. 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  might  have  guessed  that. 

JULIE.    Why  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  only  go  to  houses  where  there 
are  children.  And  as  Madame  Leseigneur  has  six  — 

JULIE.  I  wish  I  were  in  her  place.  Only  think: 
Andre,  the  youngest,  you  know,  the  one  who  is  only  six 
months  old? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

JULIE.  He  recognized  me.  There  never  was  such  a 
baby  for  taking  notice. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  talk  as  if  you  were  a  mother 
yourself. 

JULIE.  Jean  laughed  till  he  cried  when  he  saw  what 
I  had  brought  him.  Charles  and  Pierre  were  in  disgrace 
because  they  'd  been  fighting.  But  I  got  their  mother  to 
forgive  them,  so  that  was  all  right.  To-morrow  I  shall 
go  to  Madame  Durand  to  hear  how  Jacques  is  going  on. 
I  hear  he  has  the  whooping-cough. 

MME.  DUPONT  [laughing]  You  ought  to  have  been  a 
nurse. 

JULIE  [seriously]  "No,  no.  I  should  have  died  when 
I  had  to  leave  the  first  child  I  had  nursed. 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  83 

MME.  DUPONT.     Then  you  should  marry. 

JULIE.     Yes.     [Pause}. 

MME.  DUPONT  [to  Caroline}  Well,  Caroline,  what  are 
you  doing  there  with  your  mouth  open? 

CAROLINE.    I  was  listening. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Have  you  finished  your  painting? 

CAROLINE.  No.  I  still  have  six  of  the  Marie  Antoi- 
nette figures  to  do,  and  a  dozen  china  Cupids  to 
finish. 

JULIE.  How  funny  it  is  to  think  of  Caro  painting 
Cupids ! 

CAROLINE.     Why? 

MME.  DUPONT  [to  Caroline}  And  you  have  to  send 
all  those  off  by  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow? 

CAROLINE.     Yes. 

MME.  DUPONT.    You  will  never  have  them  ready. 

CAROLINE.     I  shall  manage. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  might  do  a  little  at  them  now, 
before  dinner,  instead  of  sitting  there  twiddling  your 
fingers. 

CAROLINE.    I  shall  get  up  early  to-morrow. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Even  if  you  do  get  up  early  — 

CAROLINE.  I  shall  begin  at  six,  as  soon  as  it  is 
light. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Still,  you  might  do  some  work  on 
them  now. 

CAROLINE.     I  would  rather  not. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Because  it 's  Sunday,  I  suppose;  and 
one  must  n't  work  on  Sunday. 

CAROLINE.  Yes.  [Pause}  Why  should  you  mind, 
mother,  if  I  — 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  ?  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  Do 
as  you  please.  You  are  old  enough  to  decide  for  yourself. 

JULIE  [who  has  been  reading  one  of  the  papers}  Is 
Courthezon  down  in  the  office?  I  should  like  the  next 
part  of  this. 


84  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

MM  I-:.  DUPONT.  You  know  quite  well  your  father 
does  n't  like  you  to  read  the  proofs  of  the  stories  he  has 
to  print. 

JULIE.  I  have  no  others.  Listen  to  this :  is  n't  it  too 
bad  to  have  to  stop  there?  [Reads]  "  Solange  was  still 
in  Robert's  arms.  At  this  moment  the  Count  entered, 
menacing,  terrible,  his  revolver  in  his  hand."  I  do  so 
want  to  know  what  happened  next ! 

CAROLINE.  The  Count  will  kill  them,  of  course.  It  is 
his  right. 

JULIE.     I  wonder. 

CAROLINE.   According  to  law. 

JULIE.  That 's  no  reason.  I  want  to  read  over  again 
where  Robert  comes  in.  It 's  lovely.  And  the  meeting 
with  Solange  in  Italy,  one  evening  in  May.  Where  is  it  ? 
Ah,  here !  [Reads']  "  Under  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky, 
picked  out  by  stars,  by  the  shore  of  the  calm  sea  that  a 
perfumed  breeze  just  ruffled,  and  in  which  were  reflected 
with  the  stars  above  the  many  distant  lights  of  Mentone 
and  of  Monte  Carlo  —  " 

MME.  DUPONT  [smiling]  And  your  father  imagines 
he  has  cured  you  of  all  such  foolishness ! 

JULIE.     I  am  doing  no  harm. 

MME.  DUPONT.  No  matter.  I  would  rather  you 
did  n't  read  any  more  novels. 

JULIE.  Why?  Berthe  Paillant  reads  all  the  stories 
that  come  out,  and  she  's  younger  than  I  am. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Berthe  Paillant  is  married. 

JULIE.  There  it  is !  If  one  is  not  to  remain  a  child 
to  the  end  of  one's  days  one  must  marry.  I  am  twenty- 
four,  and  I  may  n't  read  the  books  which  Berthe  can  read 
at  eighteen. 

MME.  DUPONT.  There  's  my  thread  broken  again.  I 
believe  you  bought  it  at  Lagnier's,  Caroline. 

CAROLINE.     Yes. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Why  did  n't  you  go  to  Laurent's? 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  85 

CAROLINE.  I  thought  we  ought  to  deal  with  those  who 
believe  as  we  do. 

MME.  DUPONT.  If  only  one  could  find  a  good  Catholic 
who  sold  good  wool ! 

CAROLINE.    There  is  n't  one  in  the  town. 

JULIE  [with  a  sigh]  Heigho!  You  don't  know  of  a 
husband  for  me,  do  you,  Caro? 

CAROLINE.    What  sort  of  one  do  you  want? 

JULIE  [seriously]  I  am  getting  to  the  time  of  life 
when  a  woman  accepts  the  first  man  who  offers  himself. 
Choose  whatever  sort  you  think  best  for  me  [laughing]. 
What  would  be  your  ideal?  Someone  in  business?  A 
captain  in  the  army?  Tell  me. 

CAROLINE.     No. 

JULIE.    Why  not? 

CAROLINE.  If  I  were  to  marry,  I  should  choose  a 
worker,  a  man  with  a  noble  aim,  a  man  who  would  be 
ready  to  sacrifice  himself  to  make  life  a  little  easier  for 
those  who  will  come  after  him. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Oh,  don't  talk  like  a  sentimental 
novel,  Caroline. 

CAROLINE.     I  was  not. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Well,  I  'm  sure  I  've  read  that  some- 
where. Besides,  at  your  age  one  does  n't  speak  of  those 
things  any  longer. 

JULIE.    Talking  of  that,  you  know  Henriette  Longuet? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

JULIE.     She  is  going  to  be  married. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Indeed? 

JULIE.    Yes.     [Thoughtfully]     I  'm  the  last  to  go. 

MME.  DUPONT.  The  last  go  off  best.  What  a  week 
this  is  for  marriages !  Courthezon  brought  me  an  an- 
nouncement just  now  which  I  kept  to  show  you.  Where 
is  it?  Ah,  here  it  is.  [Hands  it  to  her]. 

JULIE  [after  looking  at  it,  sadly]     That  finishes  it! 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  do  you  mean? 


86  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

CAROLINE.    What  is  it,  Julie? 

JULIE.     Nothing. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Were  you  thinking  of  M.  Jacquemin? 

JULIE.  How  do  I  know?  He  has  never  said  anything 
to  me,  of  course,  but  I  fancied  he  had  noticed  me.  I 
did  n't  care  much  about  him,  but  he  was  better  than  noth- 
ing. Better  than  nothing !  [Sighs]  It 's  a  stupid  sort 
of  world  for  girls  nowadays. 

Dupont  comes  in. 

DUPONT  [brimming  over  with  excitement  and  impor- 
tance] Ah!  Here  are  the  children.  Run  away,  my 
dears,  for  a  few  minutes.  I  '11  call  you  when  I  want  you. 

JULIE  [going  with  Caroline]  Caroline!  Do  you  think 
it  is — ? 

CAROLINE  [thoughtfully]     It  does  look  like  it. 
They  go  out  together. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Well,  what  is  it? 

DUPONT  [with  an  air  of  importance]  M.  and  Madame 
Mairaut  will  be  here  in  an  hour,  at  six  o'clock. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes? 

DUPONT  [craftily]  And  do  you  know  why  they  are 
coining  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    No. 

DUPONT.  To  ask  for  Julie's  hand  in  marriage.  That 's 
all! 

MME.  DUPONT.     For  their  son? 

DUPONT.  Well,  my  dear,  it 's  not  for  the  Sultan  of 
Turkey. 

MME.  DUPONT.     M.  Mairaut,  the  banker. 

DUPONT.  M.  Mairaut,  head  of  the  Banque  de  1'Uni- 
vers,  14  Rue  des  Trois-Chapeaux,  second  floor. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Yes;   but  — 

DUPONT.  Now,  now,  don't  excite  yourself.  Don't  lose 
your  head.  The  thing  is  n't  done  yet.  Listen.  For  the 
last  fortnight,  at  the  Merchants'  Club,  Mairaut  has  been 
taking  me  aside  and  talking  about  Julie  —  asking  me 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  87 

this,  that,  and  the  other.  As  you  may  suppose,  I  let  him 
run  on.  To-day  we  were  talking  together  about  the  diffi- 
culty of  marrying  one's  children.  "  I  know  something 
of  that,"  said  he.  "  So  do  I,"  I  said.  Then  he  grinned 
at  me  and  said:  "Supposing  Madame  Mairaut  and  I 
were  to  come  in  one  of  these  days  to  discuss  the  question 
with  you  and  Madame  Dupont?  "  You  may  imagine  my 
delight.  I  simply  let  myself  go.  But  no,  when  I  say  I 
let  myself  go,  I  do  myself  an  injustice.  I  kept  a  hand 
over  myself  all  the  time.  "  One  of  these  days  ?  Next 
week,  perhaps  ? "  I  said,  carelessly,  just  like  that. 
"  Why  not  to-day  ?  "  said  he.  "  As  you  please,"  said  I. 
"  Six  o'clock?  "  "  Six  o'clock."  What  do  you  think  of 
that? 

MME.  DUPONT.  But  M.  Mairaut  —  the  son,  I  mean 
—  Monsieur  —  what  is  his  Christian  name? 

DUPONT.     Antonin,  Antonin  Mairaut. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Antonin,  of  course.  I  was  wondering. 
Is  M.  Antonin  Mairaut  quite  the  husband  we  should 
choose  for  Julie? 

DUPONT.  I  know  what  you  mean.  His  life  is  n't  all 
that  it  should  be.  There  's  that  woman  — 

MME.  DUPONT.     So  people  say. 

DUPONT.  But  we  need  n't  bother  about  that.  There  's 
another  matter,  however,  that  is  worth  considering  — 
though,  of  course,  you  have  n't  thought  of  it.  Women 
never  do  think  of  the  really  important  things. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  mean  money?  The  Mairauts 
have  n't  any.  They  only  keep  a  couple  of  clerks  alto- 
gether in  their  bank.  They  may  have  to  put  up  the 
shutters  any  day. 

DUPONT.  Yes :  but  there  's  someone  else  who  may  put 
his  shutters  up  first.  Antonin's  uncle.  The  old  buffer 
may  die.  And  he  has  two  hundred  thousand  francs,  and 
never  spends  a  penny. 

MME.  DUPONT.    True.    But  — 


88  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

DUPONT.  But  —  But  —  There  you  go.  You  're  de- 
termined never  to  see  anything  that  is  more  than  an  inch 
before  your  nose.  I  don't  blame  you  for  it.  Women  are 
like  that. 

MME.  DUPONT.    But  suppose  he  disinherits  Antonin? 

DUPONT.  You  forget  I  shall  be  there.  I  flatter  myself 
I  shall  know  how  to  prevent  Uncle  Marechal  from  disin- 
heriting his  nephew.  Besides,  what  is  Uncle  Marechal? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Antonin's  uncle. 

DUPONT.  You  don't  understand.  I  ask  you  what 
he  is.  What  is  his  position,  I  mean? 

MME.  DUPONT.     He  's  head  clerk  at  the  Prefecture. 

DUPONT.  Exactly.  And  he  could  get  me  the  contract 
for  all  the  printing  work  at  his  office.  Thirty  thousand 
francs  a  year !  How  much  profit  does  that  mean  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Five  thousand  francs. 

DUPONT.  Five  thousand?  Ten  thousand!  If  one  is 
only  to  make  the  ordinary  trade  profit,  what 's  the  good 
of  Government  contracts  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  'm  afraid  young  M.  Mairaut's 
character  — 

DUPONT.  His  character !  We  know  nothing  about  his 
character.  He  has  one  virtue  which  nothing  can  take 
away  from  him:  he  is  his  uncle's  nephew.  And  his  uncle 
can  get  me  work  that  will  bring  in  ten  thousand  francs 
a  year,  besides  being  as  rich  as  Croesus. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Still,  are  you  sure  that  he  is  the  right 
sort  of  husband  for  Julie? 

DUPONT.  He  is  the  right  sort  of  husband  for  Julie, 
and  the  right  sort  of  son-in-law  for  me. 

MME.  DUPONT  [dubiously]  Well,  you  know  more  of 
these  things  than  I  do. 

DUPONT  [looks  at  his  watch]  Ten  minutes  past  five. 
Now  listen  to  me.  We  have  very  little  time,  but  I  feel 
the  ideas  surging  through  my  brain  with  extraordinary 
clearness.  It 's  only  in  moments  of  emergency  that  I 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  89 

feel  myself  master  of  all  my  faculties,  though  I  flatter 
myself  I  'm  not  altogether  a  fool  at  the  worst  of  times. 
[He  sits  upon  a  chair,  his  hands  leaning  upon  the  back 
of  it]  I  will  explain  everything  to  you,  so  that  you  may 
make  as  few  blunders  as  possible.  We  must  get  old 
Mairaut  to  agree  that  all  the  money,  Julie's  and  An- 
tonin's,  shall  be  the  joint  property  of  them  both. 

MME.  DUPONT.     But  there  will  be  Julie's  dot. 

DUPONT  [pettishly']  If  you  keep  interrupting  we 
shall  never  be  done.  The  joint  property  of  them  both, 
on  account  of  Uncle  Marechal's  money.  Do  you 
understand  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

DUPONT.  That 's  a  blessing.  Well,  then  we  shall  ask 
for  — 

MME.  DUPONT.     No  settlements.     I  understand. 

DUPONT.  On  the  contrary,  we  shall  ask  for  the  strict- 
est settlements  on  both  sides. 

MME.  DUPONT.    But  — 

DUPONT.  You  are  out  of  your  depth.  Better  simply 
listen  without  trying  to  understand.  [He  rises,  replaces 
his  chair,  and  taps  her  knowingly  on  the  shoulder]  In 
these  cases  one  should  never  ask  for  the  thing  one  wants. 
One  must  know  how  to  get  the  other  side  to  offer  it,  and 
be  quite  pleased  to  get  it  accepted.  Well,  then,  I  am 
giving  Julie  fifty  thousand  francs  as  her  dot. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Fifty  thousand!  But  Julie  has  only 
twenty-five  thousand. 

DUPONT.  That  is  so.  I  shall  give  her  twenty-five 
thousand  down  and  promise  the  rest  for  next  year. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  can't  mean  that.  You  will  never 
be  able  to  keep  such  a  promise.  [She  rises] 

DUPONT.  Who  knows?  If  I  get  the  contract  from 
the  Prefecture. 

MME.  DUPONT.  We  ought  to  ask  Julie  what  she  thinks 
of  this  marriage. 


90  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

DUPONT.  We  have  n't  much  time,  then.  Still,  call 
her;  and  take  off  these  covers  [pointing  to  the 
chairs']. 

MME.  DUPONT  [she  goes  towards  the  door  on  the 
right;  then  returns]  But  have  you  thought  — 

DUPONT.    I  have  thought  of  everything. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Of  everything?  What  about  Angele 
and  her  story? 

DUPON'J.'  [pompously]  Angele  is  no  longer  my 
daughter. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Still,  we  shall  have  to  tell  them. 

DUPONT.     Naturally.     Since  they  know  it  already. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  am  nearly  sure  it  was  she  I  met  last 
time  I  was  in  Paris. 

DUPONT.     You  were  mistaken. 

MME.  DUPONT.    1  don't  think  so. 

DUPONT.  In  any  case,  in  acting  as  I  did  I  was  doing 
my  duty.  I  can  hold  my  head  up  and  fear  nothing. 
Call  Julie.  She  will  help  you  to  put  the  room  tidy. 
[Madame  Dupont  goes  out]. 

DUPONT  [rubbing  his  hands]  I  think  I  've  managed 
things  pretty  well  this  time !  I  think  so ! 

Julie  and  Madame  Dupont  come  in. 

JULIE.    Father,  is  it  someone  who  wants  to  marry  me? 

DUPONT.  It  is.  [To  Madame  Dupont,  pointing  to 
the  chairs]  Take  off  those  covers.  [To  Julie]  You 
know  young  M.  Mairaut  —  M.  Antonin  Mairaut?  [He 
sits  down]  You  have  danced  together  several  times. 

JULIE.    Yes. 

DUPONT.    What  do  you  think  of  him? 

JULIE.    As  a  husband? 

DUPONT.  As  a  husband.  Don't  answer  in  a  hurry. 
Take  off  that  cover  from  the  chair  you  are  sitting  on  and 
give  it  to  your  mother. 

JULIE  [obeying]  Have  his  parents  formally  proposed 
for  him? 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  91 

MME.  DUPONT.  No.  But  if  they  should  do  so  your 
father  and  I  wish  to  know  — 

DUPONT  [to  Madame  Dupont,  giving  her  the  last  chair 
cover,  which  he  has  taken  off  himself]  Take  all  these 
away.  [Madame  Dupont  goes  out]  The  formal  offer  has 
not  been  made,  but  it  will  be  soon,  in  less  than  an  hour. 

JULIE.  Is  that  why  you  are  taking  all  this  trouble? 
[She  points  to  the  chairs], 

DUPONT.  Precisely.  We  must  n't  appear  to  be 
paupers  or  people  without  social  position.  [He  seises  a 
bowl  in  which  there  are  some  visiting  cards]  Very  old, 
these  cards.  Very  yellow.  And  the  names,  too,  common 
rather.  I  must  put  that  right.  [To  his  wife,  who  re- 
turns] Go  down  to  the  printing  office  and  ask  Court- 
hezon  to  give  you  some  printed  specimens  of  our  new 
visiting  cards  at  three  francs  —  no,  three  francs  fifty. 
And  then  put  that  Wagner  opera  on  the  piano  which 
someone  left  to  be  bound.  [Madame  Dupont  goes.  To 
Julie]  I  have  no  desire  to  influence  you,  my  dear. 

JULIE.     Still  — 

DUPONT  [going  to  the  mantelpiece]  Still  what? 
Wait  until  I  light  the  lamp.  [He  strikes  a  match]. 

JULIE.    Why,  it 's  still  quite  light. 

DUPONT.  When  one  receives  visitors  one  does  n't  wait 
till  it  is  dark  before  —  You  are  old  enough  to  know  — 
what  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  oil  ?  —  old  enough 
to  know  what  you  are  about.  Damn  the  lamps !  When 
they  are  never  lighted  it  is  the  devil's  own  job  to  make 
them  burn.  Yes,  as  I  was  saying,  it  is  for  you  to  weigh 
the  pros  and  the  cons.  Marriage  —  There !  [He  looks 
round  him]  Is  there  anything  else  to  be  done  to  make 
things  look  better?  What  is  that  over  there?  That 
great  stupid  Caroline's  hat ! 

MME.  DUPONT  [coming  in  and  bringing  visiting  cards 
and  a  piano  score  of  an  opera]  Here  are  the  cards  and 
the  music  book. 


92  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

DUPONT.  Thanks.  [He  gives  Caroline's  hat  to  Ma- 
dame Dupont]  Take  this  thing  away.  And  these  stock- 
ings. Hide  them  somewhere.  You  don't  want  to  appear 
to  do  your  own  darning,  confound  it !  It 's  extraordinary 
you  should  n't  have  thought  of  that.  [Madame  Dupont 
goes  out,  returning  in  a  moment.  Dupont  continues  me- 
chanically to  Julie]  It  is  for  you  to  weigh  the  pros  and 
cons.  This  \3  better.  Vicomte  de  Liverolles ;  M.  L'Abbe 
Candar,  Honorary  Canon;  Ange  Nitron,  Ex-Municipal 
Councillor.  That  will  look  well  enough.  The  Wagner 
score  on  the  piano,  open,  of  course.  That 's  right. 
There  's  something  else  I  want,  though.  Julie,  the  box 
of  cigars  which  M.  Gueroult  sent  me  when  he  was  elected 
to  the  Chamber. 

JULIE  [bringing  a  box]     Here  it  is. 

DUPONT.     Give  it  me. 

JULIE.    You  have  n't  begun  it  yet. 

DUPONT.  Wait.  [He  rummages  in  his  pocket  and 
takes  out  a  knife,  which  he  opens]  We  must  show  them 
that  other  people  besides  deputies  smoke  cigars  at  five 
sous.  [He  opens  the  box]  Without  being  proud,  one 
has  one's  dignity  to  keep  up.  There !  [He  takes  a 
handful  of  cigars  and  gives  them  to  his  daughter]  Put 
those  in  the  drawer  so  that  the  box  may  n't  seem  to  have 
been  opened  on  purpose  for  them.  [He  arranges  the 
box  on  the  table]  A  fashion  paper?  Excellent!  And 
for  myself  [to  Mme.  Dupont]  Leontine,  give  me  a  fresh 
ribbon  of  my  Order  of  Christ.  This  one  is  faded.  [To 
his  daughter]  He  is  twenty-eight.  He  is  good  looking 
and  distinguished.  He  passed  his  law  examination  at 
Bordeaux.  [He  puts  a  fresh  ribbon  in  his  coat,  and  looks 
at  himself  for  a  considerable  time  in  the  glass]  In  a 
town  where  I  was  not  known  this  would  be  as  good  as 
the  Legion  of  Honor.  [He  turns  round]  Well?  Have 
you  made  up  your  mind? 

JULIE.    I  should  like  more  time  to  think  it  over. 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  93 

DUPONT.    You  have  still  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

MME.  DUPONT.    She  would  like  a  few  days,  perhaps. 

DUPONT.  That 's  it.  Shilly  shally !  We  are  to  have 
the  story  of  that  great  stupid  Caroline  over  again,  are 
we  ?  No !  Your  sister,  whom  you  see  now  an  old  maid, 
who  will  never  be  married,  unless  her  aunt  in  Calcutta 
leaves  her  some  money  —  your  sister,  too,  had  her  chance 
one  day.  She  hum'd  and  ha'd;  she  wanted  to  think  it 
over.  And  you  see  the  result.  That 's  what  thinking  it 
over  leads  to.  Here  she  is,  still  on  my  hands ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  must  n't  say  that.  She  earns  her 
own  living. 

DUPONT.  She  earns  her  own  living,  perhaps ;  but  she 
remains  on  my  hands  all  the  same.  By  the  way,  we  had 
better  not  say  anything  to  the  Mairauts  about  Caroline's 
working  for  money. 

MME.  DUPONT.     They  are  sure  to  know. 

DUPONT.  Not  they.  What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes. 
She  remains  on  my  hands  all  the  same.  And  one  old 
maid  is  quite  enough  in  the  family.  Two  would  be  in- 
tolerable. Remember,  my  child,  you  have  no  dot  —  at 
least,  none  worth  mentioning.  And  as  things  go  nowa- 
days, when  one  has  no  dot,  one  must  n't  be  too  particular. 

JULIE.  To  marry  nowadays,  then,  a  girl  has  to  buy 
her  husband? 

DUPONT  [shrugs]     Well  — 

JULIE.  And  there  's  nothing  but  misery  for  girls  who 
have  no  money. 

DUPONT.  It 's  not  quite  as  bad  as  that.  But  obvi- 
ously there  is  a  better  choice  for  those  who  have  a  good 
fortune. 

JULIE  [bitterly]  And  the  others  must  be  content  with 
damaged  goods,  much  reduced  in  price! 

DUPONT.  There  are  exceptions,  of  course.  But,  as  a 
rule,  husbands  are  like  anything  else.  If  you  want  a 
good  article,  you  must  be  prepared  to  pay  for  it. 


94  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

M ME.  DUPONT.    And,  even  so,  one  is  often  cheated. 

DUPONT.  Possibly.  But  M.  Antonin  Mairaut  is  a 
very  eligible  young  man.  No?  What  do  you  want,  then, 
in  Heaven's  name?  If  you  are  waiting  for  a  royal  prince, 
say  so.  Are  you  waiting  for  a  prince?  Answer  me. 
Come,  my  child,  this  is  an  opportunity  you  may  never  see 
again :  a  young  man,  well  brought  up,  with  an  uncle  who 
is  head  clerk  at  the  Prefecture  and  can  double  my  profits 
by  putting  the  contract  for  printing  in  my  way,  not  to 
speak  of  other  things.  And  you  raise  difficulties ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  Think,  dear.  You  are  four-and- 
twenty. 

DUPONT.  And  you  have  had  the  astonishing  good 
luck  to  captivate  this  young  fellow  —  at  a  ball,  it 
seems. 

JULIE.  I  believe  so.  He  wanted  to  kiss  me  in  one  of 
the  passages.  I  had  to  put  him  in  his  place. 

MME.  DUPONT.     You  were  quite  right. 

DUPONT.  I  don't  say  she  was  n't  —  that  is,  if  she 
did  n't  overdo  it.  In  his  case  I  'm  sure  it  was  only 
playfulness. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Oh,  of  course. 

JULIE.     I  only  half  like  him,  father. 

DUPONT.  Well,  if  you  half  like  him,  that 's  always 
something.  Plenty  of  people  marry  without  even  that. 

MME.  DUPONT.    You  don't  dislike  him,  do  you,  Julie? 

JULIE.     No. 

DuroNT  [triumphantly]     Well,  then! 

JULIE.    That 's  hardly  enough,  is  it  ? 

DUPONT.  Come,  come,  my  dear,  we  must  talk  seri- 
ously. As  a  child  you  were  full  of  romantic  notions. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  cured  you  of  that  weakness.  You 
know  well  enough  that  unhappy  marriages  are,  more 
often  than  not,  love  marriages. 

JULIE  [unconvinced]  I  know,  I  know.  Still,  I  want 
to  have  a  husband  who  loves  me. 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  95 

DUPONT.  But  he  does  love  you,  does  n't  he,  since 
you  've  only  just  told  us  that  he  wanted  to  kiss  you  at  a 
ball. 

JULIE.  I  want  to  be  something  more  than  my  hus- 
band's plaything. 

DUPONT.  You  '11  lead  your  husband  by  the  nose, 
never  fear. 

JULIE.    How  do  you  know? 

DUPONT.  Never  you  mind.  I  know  it.  And  now 
really  we  have  had  enough  of  this.  You  think  that  a 
whim  of  yours  is  to  upset  all  my  plans,  prevent  me  from 
increasing  my  printing  business  and  retiring  next  year, 
as  we  intended,  your  mother  and  I.  You  think  we 
have  n't  —  I  have  n't  —  worked  enough,  I  suppose.  You 
don't  wish  us  to  have  a  little  rest  before  we  die?  You 
think  I  have  not  earned  that  rest,  perhaps  ?  Answer  me ! 
You  think  I  have  not  earned  it? 

JULIE.     Of  course  you  have,  father. 

DUPONT  [mollified]  Very  well,  then.  Still,  I  don't 
want  to  make  you  uncomfortable.  I  don't  press  you  for 
a  definite  answer  to-day.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  won't  be 
obstinate,  or  refuse  to  let  us  present  Antonin  to  you  as 
a  possible  husband,  if  his  parents  make  any  advances. 
That  is  all.  You  will,  then,  talk  with  him,  ask  him 
questions.  Naturally,  you  must  get  to  know  each  other. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Think  carefully,  my  child. 

DUPONT.  Make  up  your  mind  whether  you  wish  to 
follow  the  example  of  that  great  stupid  Caroline. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  are  quite  old  enough  to  be  mar- 
ried. [A  pause]. 

DUPONT.  Answer.  Are  n't  you  old  enough  to  be 
married? 

JULIE.     Quite,  father. 

DUPONT.     Have  you  any  other  offers? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Have  you  any  choice? 

JULIE.    No. 


96  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

DUPONT.     You  see ! 

M  M  K.  DUPONT.    You  see ! 

DUPONT.  Well,  then,  it 's  all  settled.  [He  looks  at 
his  watch]  And  only  just  in  time!  M.  Mairaut  is  punc- 
tuality itself.  It 's  five  minutes  to  six.  In  five  minutes 
he  will  be  here.  [Julie  is  silent,  gazing  through  the 
open  window.  The  laughter  of  children  is  heard  outside. 
To  Madame  Dupont,  irritably]  What 's  she  looking  out 
of  that  window  for? 

MME.  DUPONT.  It 's  Madame  Brichot.  She  is  just 
going  in  with  her  children. 

JULIE  [to  herself,  with  a  smile  of  great  sweetness, 
recalling  a  word  which  she  has  just  caught  while  dream- 
ing] Ma  in  an  ! 

DUPONT.    Well? 

JULIE.     I  will  do  as  you  wish. 

DUPONT.    Ouf !    Now  go  and  change  your  dress. 

JULIE.    Change  my  dress? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Of  course.  You  will  be  supposed  to 
know  nothing;  but  you  must  be  tidy. 

JULIE.     What  am  I  to  put  on? 

MME.  DUPONT  [reflecting]  Let  me  see.  [A  sudden 
inspiration]  I  know.  Is  n't  there  a  dance  at  the  Gon- 
tiers'  to-night? 

JULIE.     But  we  said  we  would  n't  go. 

MME.  DUPONT  [rising,  briskly]  We  are  going  all  the 
same.  Put  on  your  ball  dress. 

JULIE.     Before  dinner?    Is  he  marrying  my  clothes? 

MME.  DUPONT.  No.  But  you  look  best  in  your  ball 
dress.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  dear. 

JULIE.    Very  well.     [She  goes  out], 

DUPONT.    Are  you  really  going  to  this  ball? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Certainly  not. 

DUPONT.    Well,  then? 

MME.  DUPONT.     M.  Antonin  is  coming. 

DUPONT  [  under  s  tanding]     And  Julie  looks  far  better 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  97 

when  she  is  —  you  are  quite  right.  [A  bell  rings'] 
There  they  are !  Come  into  the  next  room,  quick ! 

MME.  DUPONT.    Why? 

DUPONT.  We  must  keep  them  waiting  a  little.  It 
creates  an  impression.  [To  the  maid,  who  passes  to  go 
to  open  the  door,  in  an  undertone]  Ask  them  to  wait  a 
moment. 

MAID.    Yes,  monsieur. 

DUPONT.  Now,  then.  [He  bustles  Madame  Dupont 
out  of  the  room.  After  a  moment  M.  and  Madame 
Mairaut  enter,  followed  by  the  maid.  Their  faces  wear 
a  genial  smile,  which  freezes  as  soon  as  they  see  that  the 
room  is  empty]. 

MAIRAUT.    They  are  not  here? 

MAID.     I  will  tell  madame.     [She  goes  out]. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Tell  madame!  [To  her  husband] 
They  saw  us  coming. 

MAIRAUT.    You  think  so? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Of  course.  Why  was  that  lamp 
lighted  ?  Not  for  an  empty  room,  I  imagine !  I  don't 
think  much  of  their  furniture.  Very  poor.  Very  poor. 
[Lifts  up  a  piece  of  stuff  from  the  back  of  an  armchair] 
This  chair  has  been  re-covered. 

MAIRAUT  [at  the  bowl  with  the  visiting  cards]  They 
know  some  good  people. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Let  me  see.  [She  looks  at  the  bowl]. 
Those  cards  were  put  there  expressly  for  us  not  an  hour 
ago. 

MAIRAUT.    Oh,  come ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Look!  The  top  ones  are  all  new. 
The  underneath  ones  are  quite  yellow. 

MAIRAUT.     Because  the  underneath  ones  are  older. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Because  the  underneath  ones  have 
been  left  out  ever  since  New  Year's  Day,  while  these  are 
just  printed.  We  must  be  careful.  Above  all  things, 
don't  you  make  a  fool  of  yourself. 


98  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

MAIRAUT.    All  right. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Don't  let  them  think  you  're  set  on 
this  marriage. 

MAIRAUT.    I  understand. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Get  them  to  offer  that  all  moneys 
shall  be  held  jointly. 

MAIRAUT.    Yes. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  And  to  work  this,  insist  on  separate 
settlements. 

MAIRAUT.    Yes. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  For  the  rest,  do  as  you  usually  do. 
Say  as  little  as  possible. 

MAIRAUT.     But  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  You  know  well  enough  that 's  the 
only  way  you  ever  do  succeed  with  things. 

MAIRAUT.  But  there  's  something  I  want  to  say  to 
you. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Then  it 's  sure  to  be  something 
stupid.  However,  we  have  nothing  better  to  do.  Go  on. 

MAIRAUT.  It 's  what  I  spoke  to  you  about  before. 
It 's  been  worrying  me  a  good  deal.  If  the  Duponts 
give  us  their  daughter,  who  has  probably  a  dot  of 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand,  I 
expect. 

MAIRAUT.  Well,  if  they  give  her  to  us,  who  have 
nothing  but  the  bank,  it  must  be  because  they  don't 
know  that  Uncle  Marechal  is  ruined. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Obviously.     Nobody  knows. 

MAIRAUT.     It  is  n't  hcnest  not  to  tell  them. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Why? 

MAIRAUT.     Surely,  my  dear  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  If  you  're  going  to  tell  them  that, 
we  may  as  well  be  off  at  once. 

MAIRAUT.     You  see! 

MME.   MAIRAUT.      I   see  that  we  ought  to  hold  our 


Act  I  Of  Monsieur  Dupont  99 

tongues.  Oh,  yes,  we  ought.  For  if  you  have  scruples 
about  injuring  the  Duponts  I  have  scruples  about  in- 
juring Uncle  Marechal. 

MAIRAUT.    What  do  you  mean? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  have  no  right  to  betray  a  secret. 
I  'm  sorry  you  should  n't  have  seen  that  I  am  quite  as 
particular  as  you  are;  only  I  put  my  duty  to  my  family 
before  my  duty  to  strangers.  If  I  am  wrong,  say  so. 

MAIRAUT.     But  if  they  ask  us  point  blank? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Then  we  must  consult  Uncle  Mare- 
chal, since  he  is  the  principal  person  concerned. 

MAIRAUT.  In  spite  of  all  you  say  it  seems  to  me  — 
[He  hesitates.  A  pause] 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Well,  my  dear,  which  is  it  to  be? 
If  you  want  us  to  go,  let  us  go.  You  are  the  master.  I 
have  never  forgotten  it.  Shall  we  go? 

MAIRAUT  [giving  in,  after  a  moment  of  painful  in- 
decision] Now  that  we  are  here,  what  would  the  Du- 
ponts think  of  us? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  And  then  we  must  remember  that 
the  eldest  Dupont  girl  got  into  trouble  and  is  now  living 
a  disreputable  life  in  Paris.  That  will  make  them  less 
difficult. 

MAIRAUT.     Hush ! 

Madame  Dupont  and  Dupont  enter  the  room.  Gen- 
eral greetings.  "  How  do  you  do,  dear  madame?  How 
are  you?  How  good  of  you  to  call!  Sit  down,"  etc. 
All  sit.  Silence. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  My  dear  Madame  Dupont,  I  will 
come  straight  to  the  point.  The  object  of  our  visit  is 
this:  M.  Mairaut  and  I  think  we  have  observed  that 
mademoiselle,  your  daughter,  has  made  an  impression  — 
how  shall  I  put  it?  A  certain  impression  on  our 
son. 

MAIRAUT.     A  certain  impression.     Yes. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Antonin  will  join  us  here  immedi- 


100  The  Three  Daughters          Act  1 

ately,  but  of  course  we  have  said  nothing  to  him  about 
this. 

DUPONT.     Julie,  of  course,  has  not  the  least  idea  — 

MME.  DUPONT.  She  is  dressing.  We  are  going  to 
the  ball  at  the  Gontiers'  to-night,  and  the  dear  child 
asked  if  she  might  dress  before  dinner. 

DUPONT.    Not  that  she  is  vain. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Not  the  least  in  the  world. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife,  in  an  off-hand  tone]  She  makes 
her  own  dresses,  does  n't  she  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Of  course.  In  this  house  we  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  have  a  bill  from  the  dressmaker. 

DUPONT.  Yet  with  all  her  other  occupations  she  's  an 
excellent  musician. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Quite  excellent.  She  has  a  passion 
for  really  good  music.  She  knows  Wagner  thoroughly. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Wagner !    Good  Heavens  ! 

MME.  DUPONT.     To  talk  about,  I  mean. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     I  know  your  daughter  is  charming. 

MME.  DUPONT.  And  good,  too.  You  would  never  be- 
lieve how  responsive  that  poor  child  is  to  affection ! 

DUPONT  [to  Mairaut,  offering  the  box]    Have  a  cigar? 

MAIRAUT.     No,  thanks.     I  never  smoke  before  dinner. 

DUPONT.  Take  one,  all  the  same.  You  can  smoke  it 
afterwards.  They  are  my  usual  brand,  but  pretty  fair. 

MAIRAUT  [taking  one]     Thank  you. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  If  Antonin  is  not  married  already  it 
is  because  his  father  and  I  wished  him  to  find  a  wife  who 
is  worthy  of  him.  The  question  of  money,  with  us,  is  of 
secondary  importance. 

MME.  DUPONT.  And  with  us.  I  'm  so  glad  we  agree 
about  that. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Antonin  might  have  made  quite  a 
number  of  good  matches. 

DUPONT.  It  is  just  the  same  with  Julie.  In  spite  of 
that  unfortunate  affair  in  the  family. 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  101 

MAIRAUT.     Yes,  we  know. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Unfortunate  affair?  We  have  heard 
nothing  of  any  unfortunate  affair.  What  are  you  say- 
ing, my  dear? 

MAIRAUT  [mumbling  confusedly']  I  was  saying  — 
nothing  —  I  was  saying  —  No,  I  was  n't  saying  any- 
thing. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [to  Madame  Dupont]  Then  there 
has  been  some  unfortunate  affair  in  your  family? 

DUPONT.  Yes.  By  my  first  marriage  I  had  two  daugh- 
ters. One,  that  great  fool  of  a  Caroline  whom  you  know. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Quite  well.  She  remains  unmarried, 
does  she  not? 

DUPONT.  She  prefers  it.  That 's  the  only  reason. 
The  other  was  called  Angele.  When  she  was  seventeen 
she  was  guilty  of  an  indiscretion  which  it  became  impos- 
sible to  hide.  I  turned  her  out  of  my  house  [Quite  sin- 
cerely] I  was  deeply  distressed  at  having  to  do  it. 

MME.  DUPONT.  For  three  days  he  refused  to  eat  any- 
thing. 

DUPONT.  Yes,  I  was  terribly  distressed.  But  I  knew 
my  duty  as  a  man  of  honor,  and  I  did  it. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  It  was  noble  of  you !  [She  shakes 
him  warmly  by  the  hand]. 

MAIRAUT.  Since  you  were  so  fond  of  her,  perhaps  it 
would  have  been  better  to  keep  her  with  you. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  My  dear,  you  are  speaking  without 
thinking.  [To  Dupont]  And  what  has  become  of  her? 

DUPONT  [lying  fluently]     She  's  in  India. 

MME.  DUPONT.     In  India? 

DUPONT  [to  Madame  Dupont]  Yes,  with  her  aunt,  a 
sister  of  my  first  wife's.  I  have  had  news  of  her  from 
time  to  time.  [To  Madame  Mairaut]  Indirectly,  of 
course. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  I  repeat,  M.  Dupont,  all  this  does 
you  honor.  [Thoughtfully]  Still,  some  people  might 


102  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

feel —  However,  I  don't  think  this  discovery  need 
make  us  abandon  our  project  at  once.  Not  at  once.  [To 
Mairaut]  What  do  you  think,  my  dear? 

MAIRAUT.     I  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  You  think,  as  I  do,  that  we  must  take 
time  to  consider,  do  you  not?  [A  pause]  Without  any 
definite  promise  on  either  side,  but  merely  in  order  to 
get  rid  of  all  money  questions,  which  are  most  distasteful 
to  me,  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  one  question,  M. 
Dupont  ? 

DUPONT.     Certainly,  Madame  Mairaut. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Have  you  ever  considered  [she  hesi- 
tates] what  you  would  give  your  daughter? 

DUPONT.    Oh,  yes  —  roughly,  you  know. 

MAIRAUT.     Just  so. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    And  the  sum  is  —  roughly? 

DUPONT.    Fifty  thousand  francs. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Fifty  thousand  francs.  [To  her 
husband]  You  hear,  dear,  M.  Dupont  will  give  his 
daughter  only  fifty  thousand  francs. 

MAIRAUT.     Yes.     [A  pause], 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     In  cash,  of  course. 

DUPONT.  Twenty-five  thousand  at  once.  Twenty- 
five  thousand  in  six  months. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [to  Mairaut]     You  hear? 

MAIRAUT.     Yes. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  For  practical  purposes  that  is  only 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  and  a  promise. 

DUPONT  [with  dignity].  Twenty-five  thousand  francs 
and  my  word. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Precisely.  That  is  what  I  said  [look- 
ing at  her  husband].  Under  these  circumstances,  we 
regret  very  much,  but  M.  Mairaut  must  decline.  It  really 
is  not  enough. 

DUPONT.    How  much  are  you  giving  M.  Antonin? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Not  a  sou!     On  that  point  we  are 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  103 

quite  decided  and  quite  frank.  As  soon  as  he  marries  his 
father  will  take  him  into  partnership,  and  his  wife's  dot 
will  be  the  capital  which  he  will  put  into  the  business. 

MAIRAUT.    That  is  the  exact  position. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Antonin  will  have  nothing  except 
what  may  come  to  him  after  our  death. 

MME.  DUPONT.  And  I  am  glad  to  think  you  are  both 
in  excellent  health. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [modestly]     That  is  so. 

MME.  DUPONT  [meditatively]  Has  n't  your  son  an 
uncle,  by  the  way? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Yes,  madame. 

MAIRAUT.     Uncle  Marechal. 

DUPONT.  People  say  M.  Marechal  has  a  great  affec- 
tion for  M.  Antonin. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Yes. 

MAIRAUT.    Very  great. 

DUPONT.    He  is  rich,  too,  people  say. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    So  they  say. 

MAIRAUT.  However,  we  have  n't  taken  him  into  ac- 
count, have  we? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Still,  M.  Marechal  would  naturally 
leave  everything  to  his  nephew. 

MAIRAUT  and  MME.  MAIRAUT  [together]  Oh,  cer- 
tainly. We  can  promise  that.  He  will  leave  him  every- 
thing he  has. 

MME.  DUPONT.  M.  Marechal  has  considerable  influ- 
ence at  the  Prefecture,  has  he  not? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  No  doubt.  But  all  this  is  really 
beside  the  mark.  At  twenty-five  thousand  francs  we 
could  not  — 

DUPONT.    I  am  sorry. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  are  sorry,  too.  [She  rises,  saying 
to  her  husband]  Come,  my  dear,  we  must  be  taking  our 
leave. 

DUPONT.    I  might,  perhaps,  go  to  thirty  thousand. 


104  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  I  am  afraid  fifty  thousand  is  the 
lowest. 

DUPONT.  Let  us  split  the  difference.  Thirty  thou- 
sand and  my  country  house  at  St.  Laurent. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  But  it  is  flooded  two  months  out  of 
the  twelve. 

DUPONT.    Flooded !    Never. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [to  her  husband]  Well,  my  dear,  what 
do  you  think? 

MAIRAUT.    Antonin  is  much  attached  to  Mile.  Julie. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Ah,  yes,  if  it  were  not  for  that! 
[Seats  herself]  My  poor  boy!  [She  weeps]. 

MME.  DUPONT.    My  poor  little  Julie !     [She  weeps]. 

MAIRAUT  [to  Dupont]  You  must  excuse  her.  After 
all,  it  is  her  son. 

DUPONT.    My  dear  sir,  I  quite  understand. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [wiping  her  eyes]  And,  of  course,  there 
would  be  the  other  twenty-five  thousand  in  six  months. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Of  course. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Have  you  any  views  as  to  settle- 
ments ? 

DUPONT.    On  that  point  I  have  very  definite  ideas. 

MAIRAUT.     So  have  I. 

DUPONT.  The  money  on  each  side  must  be  strictly 
settled. 

MAIRAUT.  Strictly  settled?  [A  silence  of  astonish- 
ment]. 

DUPONT.     Yes. 

MAIRAUT.    His  and  hers? 

DUPONT.    Certainly.     You  agree? 

MAIRAUT.  Oh,  yes,  I  agree,  I  agree.  Unless  you 
preferred  — 

DUPONT.     That  all  moneys  should  be  held  jointly? 

MAIRAUT.     Perhaps  that  would  be  — 

DUPONT.  Perhaps  so.  There  is  something  distasteful, 
I  might  almost  say  sordid,  about  strict  settlements. 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  105 

MAIRAUT.     That 's  it.     Something  sordid. 

DUPONT.     They  imply  a  certain  distrust. 

MAIRAUT.  Yes,  don't  they  ?  Well,  that 's  agreed, 
then? 

DUPONT.  Quite.  The  moneys  to  be  held  jointly.  All 
moneys,  that  is,  that  may  come  to  them  in  the  future. 
The  first  twenty-five  thousand,  of  course,  will  be  settled 
on  Julie.  They  will  form  the  dot. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  The  second  twenty-five  thousand, 
which  you  will  pay  over  in  six  months,  to  be  held  jointly. 

DUPONT.    Yes.    We  will  draw  up  a  little  agreement. 

MAIRAUT.     Quite  so. 

Antonin  Mairaut  comes  in.  He  is  a  handsome  youth 
of  twenty-eight,  very  correct  in  manner.  Greetings  are 
exchanged. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Antonin.  [To  Dupont  and  Madame 
Dupont]  You  allow  me? 

MME.  DUPONT.     By  all  means. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [she  draws  Antonin  aside  and  says  to 
him  in  a  low  voice]  It 's  settled. 

ANTONIN.     How  much? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Thirty  thousand,  the  house,  and 
twenty-five  thousand  in  six  months. 

ANTONIN.    Good. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Now  you  've  only  the  girl  to  deal 
with. 

ANTONIN.  Is  she  romantic  or  matter  of  fact?  I  don't 
quite  know. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Romantic.     Raves  about  Wagner. 

ANTONIN.     Good  Heavens! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  So  I  said.  But  once  she  's  married 
and  has  children  to  look  after  — 

ANTONIN.  Children!  Don't  go  too  fast.  Children 
come  pretty  expensive  nowadays.  Troublesome,  too. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Never  mind.  Don't  cross  her  now. 
Later  on,  of  course,  you  '11  be  master. 


106  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

ANTONIN.     I  rather  think  so. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [returning  to  Madame  Dupont~\  My 
dear  madame  — 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  He  is  afraid  he  may  not  please  Mile. 
Julie. 

DUPONT.    Absurd ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     The  amount  of  the  dot,  too  — 

DUPONT.  It  is  my  last  word.  [To  his  wife}  But 
what  is  Julie  about?  [He  rings"]. 

MME.  DUPONT  [rises}     I  will  go  and  find  her. 
A  maid  enters. 

DUPONT.  Wait!  [To  the  maid]  Ask  Mile.  Julie  to 
come  here  if  she  is  ready. 

The  maid  goes  out. 

ANTONIN.  I  must  tell  you,  monsieur  and  madame, 
how  flattered  I  am  to  find  that  the  preliminaries  have 
been  settled  between  you  and  my  parents  on  this  impor- 
tant question.  I  do  not  know  what  will  be  the  issue, 
but- 

MME.  DUPONT.  It  is  we,  monsieur,  who  are  flattered. 
But  you  '11  see  Julie  in  a  moment.  Of  course  she  knows 
nothing. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  might  leave  them  to  talk  a  little 
together,  perhaps? 

MME.  DUPONT.  By  all  means.  We  are  going  to  the 
ball  at  the  Gontiers'.  She  asked  to  be  allowed  —  Here 
she  is.  [Julie  comes  in.  Madame  Dupont  advances  to 
meet  her]  There  is  a  crease  in  your  dress,  dear.  [She 
takes  her  apart,  saying  to  the  Mairauts]  Will  you  ex- 
cuse me? 

JULIE  [in  a  low  tone]     Well? 

MME.  DUPONT.  It  rests  entirely  with  you.  We  are 
going  to  leave  you  to  talk  together.  Remember,  it  may 
be  your  last  chance.  Don't  throw  it  away. 

JULIE.     I  have  thought  it  over  and  I  don't  intend  to 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  107 

do    as    Caroline    did.      So    if,    after    we    have    had    a 
talk  — 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  '11  have  to  manage  him  a  little. 
He  has  a  great  eye  for  business.  If  you  could  make  him 
think  you  would  be  useful  in  the  bank. 

JULIE.     But  I  hate  figures. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Once  married  you  will  do  as  you 
please.  Tuck  in  that  lace  a  bit.  It 's  a  little  soiled. 
[She  tucks  in  the  lace  of  Julie's  corsage]  And  remem- 
ber, between  lovers  there  may  be  little  things  which  he 
considers  himself  entitled  to. 

JULIE.  I  understand.  They  can  see  you  whispering. 
Go  to  them.  [Madame  Dupont  goes  back  to  Madame 
Mairaut]. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    What  did  she  say? 

MME.  DUPONT.  She  has  not  the  least  suspicion  at 
present. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Let  us  leave  them  together.  [Aloud] 
My  dear  M.  Dupont,  I  have  long  wished  to  go  over  a 
printing  office.  May  we? 

DUPONT   [delighted]     If  you  will  kindly  come  this  way. 

MAIRAUT.     Thank  you. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  But  there  really  are  too  many  of  us. 
[Carelessly]  The  children  might  stay  here,  don't  you 
think,  madame? 

MME.  DUPONT.    By  all  means. 
They  go  out. 

ANTONIN  [looking  at  the  music  on  the  piano]  You 
are  fond  of  Wagner,  mademoiselle? 

JULIE.     I  adore  him. 

ANTONIN.    So  do  I. 

JULIE.    What  a  genius  he  is. 

ANTONIN.     Wonderful. 

JULIE.    For  me  he  is  the  only  composer. 

ANTONIN.    The  greatest,  certainly. 

JULIE.    No:  the  only  one. 


108  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

ANTONIN.  Perhaps  so.  How  nice  it  is  we  should  have 
the  same  tastes  in  art!  [Pause]  Er —  they  have  told 
you  nothing,  I  understand? 

JULIE.    About  what? 

ANTONIN.  Your  parents,  I  mean.  Mine  have  said 
nothing,  either. 

JULIE.  They  have  said  nothing,  of  course,  but  I 
guessed. 

ANTONIN.  So  did  I.  Then  I  may  consider  myself 
engaged  to  you? 

JULIE.  Oh,  not  yet.  We  must  know  each  other  better 
first. 

ANTONIN.     We  have  often  danced  together. 

JULIE.     Yes.     But  that 's  hardly  enough. 

ANTONIN.  It 's  enough  for  me.  Ever  since  the  first 
time  I  saw  you  at  the  ball  at  the  Prefecture. 

JULIE.  No.  It  was  at  the  band,  one  Sunday,  that 
your  mother  first  introduced  you  to  me. 

ANTONIN.    Was  it?    I  forgot. 

JULIE.  I  should  like  to  know  more  about  you.  Will 
you  —  will  you  let  me  ask  you  some  questions  ?  It  is 
not  usual,  perhaps,  but  — 

ANTONIN.     Certainly.     Pray  ask  them. 

JULIE.     Are  you  fond  of  children? 

ANTONIN.     Passionately. 

JULIE.     Really  and  truly? 

ANTONIN.     Really  and  truly. 

JULIE.  I  am  quite  crazy  about  them.  For  me  chil- 
dren mean  happiness.  They  are  the  one  thing  worth 
living  for  [wistfully].  But  I  think  I  have  a  higher  idea 
of  marriage  than  most  girls.  I  want  to  have  my  mind 
satisfied  as  well  as  my  heart. 

ANTONIN.    So  do  I. 

JULIE.  A  marriage  that  is  a  mere  business  partner- 
ship seems  to  me  horrible. 

ANTONIN.     Horrible!     That's  just  the  word. 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  109 

JULIE.    And  tell  me,  are  you  very  fond  of  society? 

ANTONIN.     Not  particularly.    Are  you? 

JULIE.     No. 

ANTONIN.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.  The  fact  is  I 
am  sick  to  death  of  parties  and  balls.  Still,  if  it  were 
necessary  for  business  reasons:  if  it  would  help  to  get 
business  for  the  bank,  you  would  n't  mind  ? 

JULIE.  Of  course  not.  What  kind  of  business  do  you 
do  at  your  bank? 

ANTONIN.    Oh,  the  usual  kind. 

JULIE.  I  have  often  read  what  is  put  up  on  the  wall: 
Current  Accounts,  Bourse  Quotations. 

ANTONIN.     Coupons  cashed. 

JULIE.    That  must  be  very  interesting. 

ANTONIN.  Would  you  take  an  interest  in  all 
that? 

JULIE.  Of  course.  When  I  was  little  my  father  used 
to  make  me  help  him  with  his  books. 

ANTONIN.    But  now? 

JULIE.  Now,  unfortunately,  he  has  a  clerk.  I  am 
sorry. 

ANTONIN.     Do  you  know  that  you  are  charming? 

JULIE.     So  you  told  me  once  before. 

ANTONIN.  Yes:  at  that  ball.  You  had  on  a  dress 
just  like  this  one.  You  are  beautiful!  Beautiful!  [He 
seizes  her  hand]. 

JULIE  [a  little  troubled]     Please ! 

ANTONIN.  Come!  We  are  engaged,  as  good  as  mar- 
ried. Give  me  one  kiss. 

JULIE.     No!     No! 

ANTONIN.    Won't  you? 

JULIE  [frightened]     No,  I  tell  you. 

ANTONIN.  What  beautiful  arms  you  have.  [He 
draws  her  towards  him]  You  remember  how  I  adored 
you  when  we  were  dancing. 

JULIE.     Let  me  go. 


110  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

ANTONIN  [greatly  excited,  in  a  low  voice]  Don't 
move.  You  are  entrancing.  [He  kisses  her  upon  the 
arm;  she  pulls  it  away  sharply]. 

JULIE.     Monsieur ! 

ANTONIN  [angry]     I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle. 
A  very  long  silence. 

JULIE  [after  looking  at  him  for  some  time]  I  have 
vexed  you? 

ANTONIN.  Well,  when  I  see  that  you  positively  dis- 
like me.  [Julie,  after  a  short  inward  struggle,  goes  to 
him]. 

JULIE  [putting  her  arm  to  his  lips  with  a  resigned 
sadness,  which  she  hides  from  him]  Antonin ! 

ANTONIN  [kissing  her  arm]  Oh,  I  love  you!  I  love 
you! 

JULIE.     Hush !     They  are  coming  back. 

The  Mairauts  and  Duponts  come  in  again. 

DUPONT.  And  when  I  have  the  contract  from  the 
Prefecture,  I  shall  double  my  business. 

MAIRAUT.    Excellent !    Excellent ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  must  be  going,  dear  madame. 
We  have  stayed  far  too  long  already.  Are  you  coming, 
Antonin  ? 

ANTONIN  [to  Julie,  aloud,  bowing  profoundly]  Ma- 
demoiselle. [In  a  low  voice]  My  beloved  Julie.  [To 
his  mother]  She  's  charming.  I  was  charming,  too,  by 
the  way.  Wagner  —  children  —  every  kind  of  romantic 
idiocy.  And  she  believed  me.  [Aloud  to  Dupont]  M. 
and  Madame  Dupont,  my  parents  will  have  the  honor  of 
calling  upon  you  to-morrow  to  ask  on  my  behalf  for  the 
hand  of  Mile.  Julie. 

DUPONT.  Till  to-morrow,  then.  Till  to-morrow.  [To 
Antonin]  All  sorts  of  messages  to  your  uncle,  if  you  see 
him. 

ANTONIN.  I  shall  not  fail.  [He  bows.  The  Mairauts 
take  their  leave]. 


Act  I          Of  Monsieur  Dupont  111 

DUPONT  [to  Julie]     That's  all  right,  then? 

JULIE.  Yes.  I  really  do  like  him.  I  think  I  man- 
aged him  pretty  well  too.  Wagner  —  the  bank  —  He 
thinks  I  've  a  perfect  passion  for  banking. 

DUPONT  [laughing]  Good.  You  're  my  own  daughter. 
Kiss  me.  And  your  father?  He  managed  pretty  well, 
I  think.  I  have  arranged  that  all  moneys  except  your 
dot  shall  be  held  by  you  both  jointly;  so  that  if  you  are 
divorced,  or  if  you  die  after  Uncle  Marechal,  your  dot 
will  come  back  to  us,  and  half  whatever  he  leaves.  I  call 
that  a  good  day's  work.  And  at  dessert  we  '11  drink  a 
bottle  of  the  best  to  the  health  of  Madame  Antonin 
Mairaut. 

MME.  DUPONT  [embracing  her]  My  poor  little 
daughter. 

DUPONT.  Poor,  indeed !  She  's  a  very  lucky  girl.  I 
wonder  where  that  great  stupid  Caroline  has  got  to. 
[He  calls]  Caroline !  She  is  never  here  when  one  wants 
her.  [He  calls  again]  Caroline !  She  is  hard  at  work 
painting  Cupids  on  plates,  I  bet.  [Caroline  appears] 
Here  she  is.  Great  news.  Your  sister  is  engaged  to  be 
married, 

CAROLINE.    Julie!     Is  it  true? 

JULIE.    Yes. 

CAROLINE.    Ah ! 

DUPONT.    Is  that  all  you  have  to  say? 

CAROLINE.  I  am  very  glad,  very  glad.  [She  bursts 
into  tears]. 

DUPONT  [astonished]  What 's  wrong  with  her  ?  Cry- 
ing !  And  she  's  not  even  asked  who  he  is.  She  's  to 
marry  M.  Antonin  Mairaut,  nephew  of  M.  Marechal. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Don't  cry  like  that,  my  dear. 

JULIE.     Caroline ! 

CAROLINE  [trying  to  restrain  her  sobs]  Don't  mind 
me.  It  is  only  because  I  love  you,  dear.  Now  you  at 
least  will  be  happy. 


112  The  Three  Daughters          Act  I 

JULIE  [musing]     Yes. 

DUPONT  [to  himself]  The  moral  of  all  this  is 
that  that  little  affair  of  Angele's  is  costing  me  an 
extra  five  thousand  francs  and  my  house  at  St. 
Laurent. 


ACT    II 

The  salon  of  a  house  in  the  country.  A  July  night. 
At  the  back,  through  glass  doors,  you  see  the  garden  bril- 
liantly lighted  by  the  moon.  As  you  look  out  you  have 
two  doors  on  your  right-hand  side,  and  to  your  left,  in  a 
cross-wall,  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  inside  which  part  of 
the  bed  is  visible.  The  fireplace  is  to  your  right.  When 
the  curtain  rises  Antonin,  Courthezon,  and  Caroline  are 
on  the  stage;  Caroline  is  doing  up  a  parcel. 

ANTONIN.  That 's  settled,  then,  M.  Courthezon.  I  '11 
write  to  the  Bordeaux  people  about  your  invention  this 
evening. 

COURTHEZON.  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  M.  Anto- 
nin. You  '11  write  this  evening  without  fail,  won't  you  ? 
M.  Smith  is  leaving  to-morrow. 

ANTONIN.     Without  fail. 

COURTHEZON.  Shall  I  post  the  letter  for  you  on  my 
way  through  the  town? 

ANTONIN.  Well  —  it 's  rather  a  difficult  letter  to 
write.  It  '11  take  a  little  time.  Lignol,  whom  you  met  at 
dinner  out  in  the  garden,  has  to  go  back  to-night.  He  '11 
take  it. 

COURTHEZON.     It 's  very  good  of  you. 

ANTONIN.    And  now  let 's  go  and  have  our  coffee. 

COURTHEZON.  Not  for  me,  thanks.  I  'm  afraid  I 
ought  to  go  by  the  8.9  train.  I  shall  be  taking  some 
china  for  Mile.  Caroline  and  the  drawings. 

ANTONIN.    As  you  please.    Good-bye,  then. 
113 


The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

COURTHEZON.  Good-bye,  M.  Antonin.  Thank  you 
again.  [Antonin  goes  out]. 

CAROLINE.  I  shall  not  keep  you  a  moment.  The 
parcel  is  just  ready. 

COURTHEZON.  There  is  no  hurry,  mademoiselle.  I 
can  take  the  next  train.  It 's  of  no  importance.  Indeed 
I  prefer  it.  It  carries  third-class  passengers.  The  fact 
is  I  did  n't  want  to  go  back  to  the  others.  M.  and  Ma- 
dame Mairaut,  M.  Lignol,  all  those  people  frighten  me. 
Besides,  I  'm  so  happy  just  now  I  can  think  of  nothing 
else. 

CAROLINE.  M.  Antonin  is  going  to  do  something  about 
your  invention? 

COURTHEZON.  Yes.  I  have  begun  negotiations  with 
a  business  house  at  Bordeaux.  M.  Antonin  knows  the 
heads  of  the  firm,  and  he  has  been  kind  enough  to  say 
he  will  write  to  them  about  me.  But  M.  Smith  goes 
away  to-morrow.  That  was  why  I  was  so  anxious  the 
letter  should  go  to-night. 

CAROLINE  [giving  him  the  parcel  which  she  has  just 
finished]  It 's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  charge  of  this. 
I  have  put  the  china  in  it  and  the  drawings  they  asked 
for.  You  will  make  my  apologies  to  the  firm,  won't  you  ? 
I  have  not  been  very  well. 

COURTHEZON.    Not  well? 

CAROLINE.  Nothing  serious.  But  the  doctor  said  a 
little  country  air  would  be  good  for  me,  so  Julie  and  her 
husband  asked  me  here.  They  have  been  very  kind.  I 
have  been  with  them  a  week,  and  I  'm  feeling  ever  so 
much  better. 

COURTHEZON.  They  would  hardly  have  left  you  in 
your  lodgings  with  no  one  to  look  after  you.  [Pause] 
What  a  strange  idea  it  was  of  yours  to  go  off  and  live 
by  yourself  like  that ! 

CAROLINE.  I  thought  it  better.  After  Julie's  mar- 
riage I  preferred  it. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  115 

COURTHEZON.     It  must  cost  more. 

CAROLINE  [shrugs]  I  dare  say.  [Pause]  You  are 
going  to  have  a  lovely  night  for  your  journey.  How 
bright  the  moon  is !  One  can  see  as  clearly  as  if  it  were 
broad  daylight. 

COURTHEZON  [suddenly  remembering]  There  now! 
I  was  just  going  to  forget!  I  brought  a  letter  for  M. 
Dupont  from  the  office.  It  came  after  he  left.  It 's 
about  the  printing  contract  for  the  Prefecture. 

CAROLINE.  For  the  Prefecture?  He'll  want  to  see 
that  directly  he  comes  in. 

COURTHEZON.  And  now  I  really  must  be  off.  Good- 
bye, Mile.  Caro. 

CAROLINE.    Good-bye,  M.  Courthezon.     [He  goes  out]. 

After  Courthezon's  departure  Caroline  returns  to  her 
seat.  She  makes  a  slight  sign  of  the  cross,  closes  her 
eyes,  and  sits  motionless,  praying  silently.  After  a  few 
seconds  she  again  crosses  herself,  but  does  all  this  very 
quietly.  Lignol  comes  in  through  the  glass  doors,  giving 
his  arm  to  Julie.  Antonin  and  M.  and  Madame  Mairaut 
follow. 

ANTONIN.  We  shall  be  more  comfortable  here  than  in 
the  garden.  It 's  getting  rather  chilly.  [To  Lignol] 
You  can  smoke. 

LIGNOL.    We  really  could  have  stayed  out  quite  well. 

ANTONIN.    And  given  Julie  cold,  eh? 

JULIE.     My  dear,  I  assure  you  — 

ANTONIN.  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  But  you  are  n't  wrapped 
up  enough.  [He  touches  her  arm]  In  that  thin  dress 
you  've  simply  nothing  on.  Just  feel,  Lignol,  feel. 

JULIE  [protesting]     My  dear ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  What  a  charming  frock  you  have  on, 
my  dear.  Quite  delightful. 

JULIE.    It  came  from  Madame  Raimond. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [to  Mairaut]  From  Madame  Rai- 
mond? I  thought  she  made  all  her  own  dresses. 


116  The  Three  Daughters         Act  II 

LIONOL  [to  Julie~\  You  know,  madame,  that  you  have 
not  convinced  me  yet. 

JULIE.  Admitting  that  I  am  wrong —  [They  go 
towards  the  garden  door  with  Antonin,  talking]. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  [to  Mairaut]  And  you  urged  on  that 
marriage. 

MAIRAUT.     I ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  When  she  was  at  home  she  never 
went  to  a  dressmaker.  And  now !  It 's  too  much !  And 
we  shall  have  the  river  in  here  before  long.  That  wall  is 
bound  to  go. 

MAIRAUT.    Do  you  think  so  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  shall  have  the  whole  house  about 
our  ears.  And  that  fool  — 

MAIRAUT.    What  fool? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Your  son,  of  course,  who  has  put  in 
electric  light. 

ANTONIN  [from  the  garden  door,  to  Lignol]  You 
did  n't  know  I  'd  had  electric  light  put  in.  We  have  lots 
of  water  power,  you  see.  I  ought  to  have  turned  it  on 
before.  Look !  [He  touches  a  button  and  turns  up  the 
light]. 

LIGNOL.     That's  better.     [They  talk  on]. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  If  the  river  rises  another  couple  of 
inches,  down  will  come  four  hundred  feet  of  that  wall. 

MAIRAUT.     It 's  iiot  as  bad  as  that. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Oh,  you  have  let  yourself  be  nicely 
done. 

MAIRAUT.    Come,  come ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  The  girl  is  utterly  useless.  She  can 
do  nothing.  And  the  house  will  cost  more  in  repairs  than 
it  is  worth.  When  I  think  I  was  idiot  enough  to  listen 
to  you.  [She  listens]  What  was  that? 

MAIRAUT.     I  hear  nothing. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  The  wall!  Listen!  [They  listen 
intently]. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  117 

JULIE  [coming  forward  with  Lignol  and  Antonin] 
Oh,  yes,  we  're  comfortable  enough  here,  as  you  see. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Comfortable  enough !  [To  Mairaut] 
Come  with  me.  This  way.  I  am  certain  the  wall  has 
fallen.  If  it  has  we  must  have  a  little  talk  with  the  Du- 
ponts;  and  I,  for  one,  shan't  mince  matters.  [Turning 
to  the  others]  My  husband  finds  the  heat  a  little  too 
much  for  him.  We  are  going  for  another  turn  in  the 
garden.  Oh,  it 's  nothing,  nothing  at  all. 

MAIRAUT  [mumbling]     Nothing.     Giddy,  that 's  all. 

ANTONIN.  Quite  right.  Get  all  the  fresh  air  you  can 
while  you  are  in  the  country.  Don't  be  long.  We  're 
expecting  visitors,  you  know. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  '11  be  back  in  time.  [Madame 
Mairaut  and  Mairaut  go  out  into  the  garden]. 

ANTONIN.  Here,  you  see,  is  the  staircase  which  leads 
to  the  upstairs  rooms  and  down  to  the  garden.  [He  goes 
to  the  door  on  his  left]  Here  is  our  bedroom. 

JULIE  [in  a  low  voice,  so  as  not  to  be  noticed  by  Lig- 
nol] Antonin! 

ANTONIN  [aloud]  Nonsense,  dear.  Why  not?  [He 
opens  the  door.  To  Lignol]  Look ! 

LIGNOL.    Charming. 

ANTONIN.  A  real  nest,  eh?  A  nest  for  love-birds. 
That's  what  I  call  it.  [To  his  wife]  Kiss  me, 
dear. 

JULIE.    But  — 

ANTONIN.     Kiss  me!    Come! 

JULIE  [gently]     But  we  're  not  alone. 

ANTONIN.    Lignol  won't  mind.    Eh,  Lignol? 

LIGNOL  [laughs]  Don't  mention  it.  You  weren't  so 
shy  at  dinner. 

ANTONIN  [to  Julie,  smiling]  Come !  Wives  must 
obey,  you  know.  [She  kisses  him]  And  now  go  and 
see  about  that  beer. 

JULIE.     Mayn't  I  send  the  servant?, 


118  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

ANTONIN.  She  does  n't  know  where  it  is.  It 's  not 
unpacked  yet.  [To  Lignol]  It's  a  wedding  present. 
We  are  going  to  broach  it  to-night. 

LIGNOL.    Not  for  me.     I  must  go  in  a  moment. 

ANTONIN.  I  was  n't  thinking  of  you,  my  dear  fellow. 
You  're  a  friend.  These  formal  entertainments  are  re- 
served for  acquaintances.  For  the  Pouchelets,  in  fact. 
M.  Pouchelet  has  just  been  elected  a  Departmental  Coun- 
cillor. He  and  his  wife  are  paying  their  first  visit  here 
to-night. 

LIONOL.    So  late? 

ANTONIN.  On  their  way  back  from  the  Prefet's. 
They  are  dining  there,  and  we  are  near  neighbors.  They 
are  very  well  off,  very  influential.  Useful  people  alto- 
gether. What  was  I  saying?  [To  Julie]  Oh,  yes,  the 
beer :  that  girl  will  never  be  able  to  find  it.  Besides,  I  'd 
rather  you  went.  She  would  only  break  the  bottles. 
[Julie  pouts]  Wives  must  obey,  you  know. 

JULIE.  Very  well.  I  shall  be  back  before  you  go, 
M.  Lignol.  [She  goes  out]. 

CAROLINE  [to  Antonin]  You  won't  forget  the  letter 
for  M.  Courthezon,  will  you,  M.  Antonin? 

ANTONIN.     Of  course  not. 

CAROLINE.     If  you  write  I  feel  sure  he  will  succeed. 

ANTONIN.     Yes,  yes,  I  know. 

CAROLINE.     I  will  go  to  Julie. 

ANTONIN.  You  'd  much  better  go  and  put  on  another 
dress  or  something.  Just  to  smarten  yourself  up.  The 
Pouchelets  are  coming.  We  must  all  look  our  best. 

CAROLINE  [rather  aghast,  looking  at  her  clothes]  But 
—  [A  pause]  Very  well.  [She  goes  out], 

LIGNOL.  Who  is  that  lady?  She  never  spoke  a  word 
all  through  dinner. 

ANTONIN  [carelessly]  A  poor  relation.  The  usual 
thing ;  an  old  maid,  always  at  church.  Awfully  prim  and 
proper,  you  know.  [Rather  shamefaced]  In  fact  — 


Act  II        Of  Monsieur  Dupont  119 

I  don't  mind  telling  you  —  she  really  works  for  her 
living. 

LIGNOL.  Well,  why  not  ?  There  's  nothing  dishonor- 
able about  that,  is  there? 

ANTONIN.  I  know.  But  still  —  She  paints  little 
Cupids  and  that  kind  of  thing,  on  china.  [He  laughs 
loudly].  Enough  to  make  you  split!  You  don't  see  it? 
The  other  day  someone  offered  her  some  work  far  better 
paid  than  what  she  's  doing  at  present.  She  refused. 
Guess  why. 

LIGNOL  [bored]     Why? 

ANTONIN  [giggling]  Because  the  woman  who  kept 
the  shop  was  divorced.  [He  laughs].  But  it  is  good  to 
see  you  again,  my  dear  chap.  [He  claps  Lignol  on  the 
shoulder].  Awfully  good. 

LIGNOL.  I  Ve  enjoyed  coining  immensely.  [A  pause] 
Your  wife  is  charming. 

ANTONIN  [fatuously]     Not  bad,  eh! 

LIGNOL.    And  she  's  clever,  too. 

ANTONIN.    Get  out ! 

LIGNOL.     I  'm  quite  serious. 

ANTONIN.  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say.  I  know  all  about  that. 
No  use  denying  it.  Julie  's  stupid.  It  was  partly  for 
that  very  reason  I  married  her. 

LIGNOL.     I  don't  think  so.     She  has  read  a  lot. 

ANTONIN.  Read !  Oh,  yes,  she  's  read!  She  reads 
everything  she  comes  across.  Before  her  marriage  she 
read  the  proofs  of  everything  her  father  printed.  Here 
she  has  unearthed  a  lot  of  books  left  behind  by  an  old 
fool  M.  Dupont  bought  the  house  from.  She 's  read 
them  all. 

LIGNOL.    But  then  — 

ANTONIN.  But  she  does  n't  understand  a  word  of 
what  she  reads.  Not  a  word !  The  other  day  I  looked  at 
the  author's  name  on  the  book  in  her  hand.  It  was  Mill. 
You  know,  John  Stuart  Mill. 


120  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

LIONOL  [nods]     Yes,  I  know. 

ANTONIN.  So  do  I,  by  name.  But  I  've  never  read 
him,  thank  goodness.  No,  I  tell  you  Julie  's  stupid.  But 
she  's  pretty  and  she  knows  how  to  put  on  her  clothes. 
I  knew  what  I  was  about  when  I  married  her.  With  a 
little  instruction  from  me  she  '11  learn  to  manage  the 
house  well  enough.  And  that 's  all  I  ask  of  a  woman. 

LIGNOL.  Indeed  !  Well,  my  dear  chap,  if  you  imagine 
you  've  married  a  stupid  woman,  you  're  mistaken. 

ANTONIN.     How  do  you  know? 

LIGNOL.  She  and  I  have  been  talking  while  you  were 
entertaining  your  inventor. 

ANTONIN.    You  got  her  to  talk,  did  you? 

LIGNOL.     Certainly. 

ANTONIN.  Wonders  will  never  cease.  When  we  're 
alone  she  never  has  a  word  to  say. 

LIGNOL.    And  you? 

ANTONIN.     I  have  n't  either. 

LIGNOL.     That 's  awkward. 

ANTONIN.  I  'm  always  afraid  of  putting  my  foot  in  it. 
The  fact  is  I  don't  understand  Julie. 

LIGNOL.     And  you  've  been  married  five  months. 

ANTONIN.  Four  months  and  a  week  over.  But  then 
I  'm  at  business  all  the  week.  Every  Saturday  her  par- 
ents and  mine  come  down  to  spend  Sunday  with  us.  M. 
and  Madame  Dupont  could  n't  get  here  in  time  for  din- 
ner to-night,  but  they  '11  be  here  soon.  When  we  are 
alone  I  try  to  find  some  subject  of  conversation,  but  I 
tell  you  it 's  like  walking  on  eggshells.  Whew !  And 
so  — 

LIGNOL.    Well? 

ANTONIN.    And  so  I  stop.    And  then  I  kiss  her. 

LIGNOL.    You  're  tremendously  in  love  with  her. 

ANTONIN.    Yes. 

LIGNOL.     And  she? 

ANTONIN.     She  's  just  the  same. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  121 

LIONOL.     Happy  man! 

ANTONIN.  For  the  rest  we  can  only  wait  and  see  how 
things  turn  out.  She  knows  nothing  of  my  tastes.  I 
know  nothing  of  hers. 

LIGNOL.  And  what  did  you  talk  about  while  you  were 
engaged  ? 

ANTONIN.  We  were  only  engaged  three  weeks.  Just 
long  enough  to  get  the  money  matters  settled. 

LIGNOL.    You  took  good  care  about  them,  I  bet. 

ANTONIN.  Rather.  In  fact  it  was  a  precious  good 
stroke  of  business.  [He  laughs]  If  you  only  knew  how 
we  did  the  Duponts,  maman  and  I !  [He  laughs 
again}. 

LIGNOL.  Hush !  Here  's  your  wife.  [Julie  comes  in, 
and  Lignol  rises  to  go]  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going, 
madame. 

ANTONIN".  But  my  letter  for  Courthezon.  [He  looks 
at  his  watch].  You  've  twenty  minutes  still. 

LIGNOL.     You  're  sure  ? 

ANTONIN.  Certain.  Wait  a  second.  I  '11  go  and  write 
it,  and  then  I  '11  see  you  to  the  station.  It 's  only  a  step. 
[He  goes  out]. 

JULIE.  Thanks  to  you,  M.  Lignol,  we  have  had  a  de- 
lightful evening. 

LIGNOL.  You  flatter  me,  dear  madame.  I  know  quite 
well  I  have  been  in  the  way. 

JULIE.  On  the  contrary.  I  have  not  had  such  an 
evening's  conversation  since  I  married. 

LIGNOL.    Antonin  is  n't  a  great  talker. 

JULIE.   You  are  old  friends,  are  n't  you? 

LIGNOL.  Yes.  I  've  known  him  fifteen  years.  We  are 
almost  like  brothers. 

JULIE.  Tell  me !  Is  he  what  you  would  call  a  religious 
man? 

LIGNOL.  Antonin!  [Bursts  out  laughing].  Why, 
he  's  a  materialist.  Not  much  idealism  about  him. 


122  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

JULIE.  Indeed !  Not  much  idealism  !  But  he  's  fond 
of  music?  Good  music,  I  mean:  Wagner? 

LIGNOL.  He  likes  a  brass  band  or  a  comic  opera. 
[Julie  shows  surprise]  You  are  astonished?  Oh,  I  for- 
got. He  plays  a  little  on  the  concertina.  My  dear 
madame,  Antonin  is  a  good  chap  but  thoroughly  matter 
of  fact.  Prosaic. 

JULIE  [laughing]  You  are  not  very  complimentary  to 
your  friends. 

1  LIGNOL.  What  annoys  me  is  that  he  should  possess  a 
treasure  like  you  and  should  seem  quite  unconscious  of 
its  value.  Ah,  when  I  marry  — 

JULIE.     You  are  going  to  marry  soon? 

LIGNOL.  I  don't  know.  [Musingly"]  If  I  were  to 
meet  a  woman  like  you,  a  woman  with  whom  I  could  dis- 
cuss everything  in  heaven  and  earth,  everything  that 
raises  us,  makes  us  higher,  then  — 

JULIE.  Look  for  her.  You  '11  find  her  easily 
enough. 

LIGNOL.  And  beautiful,  too.  Beautiful  as  you  are. 
For  you  are  beautiful,  you  know. 

JULIE  [still  rallying  him]  Are  you  making  love  to 
me  by  any  chance,  M.  Lignol? 

LIGNOL.  If  making  love  to  you  means  yielding  to  an 
overmastering  attraction  —  to  a  fascination  — 

JULIE  [laughing]  You  certainly  make  the  most  of 
your  time  as  friend  of  the  family.  But  I  should  n't 
hurry  if  I  were  you.  You  will  only  be  wasting  a  lot  of 
pretty  speeches  which  you  could  employ  to  greater  ad- 
vantage elsewhere.  I  have  old-fashioned  views  on  the 
subject  of  marriage. 

LIGNOL.  Whatever  they  are  I  am  sure  they  will  be 
lofty  and  noble. 

JULIE.  You  are  too  good.  But  you  are  mistaken.  My 
view  is  commonplace  enough.  All  I  ask  of  life  is  that  I 
may  love  my  children  and  love  my  husband. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  123 

LIGNOL.     Your  children? 

JULIE  [quite  simply,  with  a  touch  of  emotion]  Above 
everything  my  children.  What  I  am  going  to  say  will 
sound  absurd  to  you,  but  the  day  my  first  child  is  born 
will  be  the  happiest  day  of  my  life.  So  you  see,  M. 
Lignol  — 

LIGNOL  [insinuatingly]  Dear  madame,  we  shall  meet 
again. 

JULIE  [smiling]     As  soon  as  you  please. 
Antonin  comes  in. 

ANTONIN.  Here  's  the  letter.  You  '11  slip  it  into  the 
post-box,  won't  you?  And  now  we  Ve  only  just  time. 

LIGNOL.  I  'm  ready  [rising  briskly].  But  don't  let 
me  drag  you  to  the  station.  You  '11  be  leaving  madame 
alone. 

ANTONIN.  That 's  all  right.  Come  along.  I  can  see 
if  M.  and  Madame  Dupont  have  arrived  at  the  same 
time. 

LIGNOL  [to  Julie]  Au  revoir,  madame.  [To  An- 
tonin] I  am  sorry  not  to  say  good-bye  to  mademoiselle. 
[Antonin  is  puzzled]  To  the  lady  who  dined  with  us. 

ANTONIN.  Oh,  Caro.  I  '11  say  it  for  you.  No,  here 
she  is.  [Caroline  comes  in;  and,  as  Lignol  is  saying 
good-bye  to  her,  M.  and  Madame  Dupont  appear.  An- 
tonin hurriedly  introduces]  My  friend  Lignol.  He  has 
to  catch  this  train. 

LIGNOL.    So  sorry.     [He  goes  out  with  Antonin]. 

DUPONT.  Ah,  Caroline.  There  you  are.  I  have  good 
news  for  you.  Your  aunt  is  dead.  Your  aunt  in  India. 
She  has  left  all  her  money  to  you  and  Angele.  Not  much. 
Sixty  thousand  francs  between  you.  I  get  nothing,  of 
course.  She  never  could  endure  me.  My  dear  girl, 
what 's  the  matter  ?  Come,  come,  you  're  not  going  to 
cry  because  your  aunt  is  dead !  You  've  not  seen  her  for 
five  and  twenty  years.  It 's  the  greatest  stroke  of  luck 
for  you.  And  I  shall  have  all  the  trouble,  as  usual !  [A 


124  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

gesture  of  dissent  from  Caroline].  Oh,  yes,  I  shall. 
Your  sister  will  have  to  come  down  from  Paris. 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  thought  you  said  she  was  in  India. 

DUPONT.  In  India!  What  are  you  talking  about? 
She  is  in  Paris.  She  has  never  been  anywhere  except  in 
Paris.  What  should  take  her  to  India?  [To  Caroline] 
Your  sister  Angele  will  have  to  come  down  from  Paris 
because  part  of  the  money  is  in  land.  It  will  be  sold,  of 
course,  but  still  I  shall  have  to  see  Angele.  And  that 
will  set  people  talking.  Lots  of  people  don't  even  know 
that  I  have  three  daughters.  [To  Julie]  It 's  lucky  for 
you  this  did  n't  happen  before  your  marriage,  Julie. 

CAROLINE.    Must  she  come,  father? 

DUPONT.  Certainly  she  must.  You  must  both  be 
present  at  the  lawyer's  together  to  sign  the  documents. 

CAROLINE.     I  will  not  go  to  the  lawyer's. 

DUPONT.  If  you  refuse  to  go  Angele  will  not  be 
able  to  get  her  legacy,  and  she  needs  it. 

CAROLINE.  Well,  perhaps  I  will  go.  I  will  think  it 
over  and  consult  someone.  I  will  give  yqu  my  answer 
to-morrow. 

DUPONT.  As  you  please.  And  not  a  word  about  this, 
remember,  either  of  you. 

JULIE.    Very  well,  father. 

CAROLINE  [taking  a  letter  from  the  mantelpiece] 
Courthezon  brought  this  letter  for  you.  It  is  about  the 
printing  work  for  the  Prefecture. 

DUPONT  [he  reads  the  letter]  Done,  by  Jove !  Du- 
moulin  gets  the  contract !  -Dumoulin !  I  expected  this. 
I  expected  it.  Uncle  Marechal  has  done  it  on  purpose, 
curse  him!  [To  Julie]  How  long  have  I  been  telling 
you  you  ought  to  pay  him  a  visit  ?  Have  you  been  ?  No ! 
And  Antonin  ?  Not  he !  Nor  his  father  and  mother ! 
The  old  fool  is  offended,  and  this  is  his  revenge.  And  if 
this  goes  on  we  shall  never  get  a  halfpenny  of  his  money. 
Why  have  n't  you  been  to  see  him  ? 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  125 

JULIE.    Antonin's  parents  did  n't  wish  it. 

DUPONT.  Ah !  They  did  n't  wish  it !  Well,  I  have 
a  word  or  two  to  say  to  Antonin's  parents,  you  '11  see. 
7  do  my  duty.  /  go  and  call  on  Uncle  Marechal  myself. 
/  amuse  the  old  idiot,  though  it 's  not  the  pleasantest 
sort  of  job  to  have  to  do.  They  didn't  wish  it!  I  '11 
show  them  the  kind  of  man  I  am !  And  you  —  you  were 
fool  enough  to  do  what  they  told  you !  I  find  a  husband 
for  you,  a  far  better  match  than  you  could  ever  have 
hoped  for.  I  do  the  Mairauts  — 

MME.  DUPONT  [alarmed,  looking  round  her~\     Hush ! 

DUPONT.    Well,  have  n't  I  done  the  Mairauts  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Yes,  yes !  But  don't  say  it  so 
loud. 

DUPONT.  They  are  n't  here.  And  if  they  were, 
Julie  's  married  now.  [Speaking  lower,  but  with  the 
same  fury]  I  do  the  Mairauts  — 

MME.  DUPONT.    Are  you  quite  sure? 

DUPONT.  Am  I  quite  sure  ?  Have  n't  I  done  them  ? 
I  tell  you  I  've  done  them  brown! 

The  maid-servant  comes  in. 

SERVANT  [to  Julie]     It 's  about  the  beer,  madame. 

JULIE.  I  'm  coming.  Will  you  come,  too,  Caro? 
[Julie  and  Caroline  go  out], 

DUPONT  [fuming]     Brown,  by  Jove! 

MME.  DUPONT.     Hush!     Here  they  are. 

DUPONT.     I  'm  glad  to  hear  it.     Now  you  '11  see. 
M.  and  Madame  Mairaut  come  in. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Ah,  you  are  here?  Well,  the  wall 
has  come  down. 

DUPONT.     I  'm  not  thinking  about  the  wall. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Very  likely.  You  have  n't  to  pay 
for  putting  it  up  again. 

DUPONT.  I  'm  not  thinking  about  the  wall.  I  'm 
thinking  of  something  far  more  important.  M.  and 
Madame  Mairaut,  I  regret  to  have  to  inform  you  that 


126  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

you  are  either  deplorably  unintelligent  or  else  devoid  of 
all  sense  of  parental  duty. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  '  Indeed !  So  it 's  you  who  propose 
to  insult- us  just  when  — 

DUPONT.  I  am  a  father  and  I  love  ray  children. 
When  their  interests  are  at  stake  I  have  the  sense  to  keep 
on  good  terms  with  those  who  may  be  useful  to  them 
later  on. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [after  a  moment's  thought]  I  see. 
Uncle  Marechal? 

DUPONT.     You  knew  it?     You  did  it  on  purpose? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Uncle  Marechal !  [She  bursts  out 
laughing  uproariously], 

MAIRAUT.   Charlotte !  My  dear !  Don't  laugh  like  that. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Why  should  n't  I  laugh  ?  You  are  n't 
going  to  forbid  me,  I  suppose  [looking  full  at  Dupont 
and  laughing  more],  nor  monsieur? 

DUPONT.  Well,  since  you  take  it  like  that,  I  propose 
to  give  you  my  view  of  the  situation.  Either  you  are 
hopelessly  selfish  or  else  you  are  hopelessly  stupid. 

MAIRAUT.    Monsieur  Dupont! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  You  hold  your  tongue.  Leave  me 
to  deal  with  him. 

MME.  DUPONT.     My  dear  — 

DUPONT.  Be  silent.  Selfish  or  stupid?  Which? 
[Madame  Mairaut  shrugs  her  shoulders]  Is  Uncle 
Marechal  a  man  with  money  to  leave,  or  is  he  not? 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [decisively,  after  a  moment's  thought] 
He  is  not! 

DUPONT  [staggered]     He  is  not?     But  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  I  quite  understand,  and  you  have 
your  answer.  He  is  not. 

DUPONT.    He  has  not  two  hundred  thousand  francs? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  He  had  them.  Somebody  else  has 
them  now.  He  has  lost  them. 

DUPONT.    Lost  them !    If  this  is  true  — 


Act  II        Of  Monsieur  Dupont  127 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  That  is  why  we  don't  waste  our  time 
in  going  to  see  him. 

DUPONT.  But  —  I  dcn't  understand.  [A  pause.  He 
controls  himself]  How  long  ago  did  this  happen? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    More  than  six  months  ago. 

DUPONT.     More  than  six  months?     Then  you  knew? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Yes,  we  knew. 

DUPONT.    And  you  never  told  me? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    You  did  n't  ask  us. 

DUPONT.  You  ought  to  have  informed  me.  It  was 
dishonest. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Monsieur! 

DUPONT.    You  have  swindled  me. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Swindled! 

DUPONT.      Yes !      Swindled ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Nonsense.  We  are  as  well  off  as 
you  are,  I  hope.  Our  bank  is  worth  as  much  as  your 
printing  business. 

DUPONT.  Most  people  would  n't  say  so.  As  to  that, 
by  the  way,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  No,  monsieur.  I  have  nothing 
further  to  say  to  you.  And  I  am  now  going  to  inform 
my  son  how  you  have  treated  us. 

MME.  DUPONT.   Madame  Mairaut ! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Are  you  coming,  Alfred? 

Mairaut  makes  a  gesture  of  regret  and  distress  behind 
his  wife's  back,  and  then  follows  her  out. 

MME.     DUPONT.     This  is  terrible! 

DUPONT.  Eh?  [Pulling  himself  together].  No!  On 
reflection  I  'm  inclined  to  think  it 's  the  best  thing  that 
could  have  happened.  I  regret  nothing.  Rather  the 
contrary. 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  don't  understand. 

DUPONT.  Naturally !  You  don't  understand.  You 
will  later.  [Julie  comes  in]  We  were  just  speaking  of 
you.  I  hear  your  husband's  business  is  shaky.  Is  it? 


128  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

JULIE.     I  know  nothing  about  it. 

DUPONT.  You  know,  I  suppose,  whether  it  is  true 
that  he  got  let  in  by  the  Bourdin  failure? 

JULIE.     No. 

DUPONT.  Good  Heavens !  What  on  earth  do  you  talk 
about  at  meals,  and  so  on? 

JULIE.    We  don't  talk  at  all. 

DUPONT.  Still  you  must  have  noticed  whether  he  was 
anxious  and  preoccupied,  or  whether  he  was  in  his  usual 
spirits. 

JULIE.  I  've  no  idea  what  his  usual  spirits  are.  I  've 
only  known  him  six  months. 

DUPONT.  You  'd  better  ask  him  how  things  are  going, 
at  once. 

JULIE.    What 's  the  good? 

DUPONT.  You  must  ask  him.  You  will  have  children 
some  day,  I  suppose? 

JULIE  [with  a  sigh]  If  it  were  n't  for  that,  I  think  I 
should  go  and  drown  myself. 

DUPONT.  That  would  be  absurd.  But  we  need  n't 
discuss  that  now.  Only,  if  you  don't  wish  your  children 
to  be  beggars,  keep  an  eye  on  your  husband's  business 
affairs. 

JULIE.    Very  well.     I  will. 

Antonin  comes  in. 

ANTONIN  [in  a  tone  of  mild  reproach']  M.  Dupont, 
this  is  very  annoying.  Here  are  my  parents  coming  to 
me  to  complain  that  you  have  called  them  swindlers. 
I  must  say  it 's  pretty  hard  on  me  if  I  can't  even  spend 
a  Sunday  in  the  country  in  peace.  From  the  moment 
you  arrive  on  Saturday  night  you  begin  quarrelling.  And 
now  —  swindlers  !  Come,  come,  M.  Dupont,  that 's  not 
the  sort  of  name  one  calls  people,  is  it?  They  are  very 
angry,  and  I  don't  blame  them. 

DUPONT.    Oh,  it  was  really  nothing. 

ANTONIN.     Maman  is  furious. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  129 

DUPONT.  That 's  absurd  of  her.  You  know  what  it  is 
when  people  begin  disputing;  one  word  leads  to  another, 
and  one  says  things  one  only  half  believes.  However,  to 
show  how  reasonable  I  am,  I  will  go  and  make  my  apol- 
ogies to  Madame  Mairaut.  [To  Madame  Dupont~\ 
Come,  my  dear:  you  must  do  the  talking. 

ANTONIN.  If  you  put  yourself  in  my  place,  you  will 
see  how  unpleasant  this  kind  of  thing  is. 

DUPONT  [with  dignity]  Quite  so.  [He  and  Madame 
Dupont  turn  towards  the  door]. 

ANTONIN  [calling  them  back]  Here  are  M.  and  Ma- 
dame Pouchelet.  Wait !  [He  goes  to  the  door  and  calls 
to  his  parents]  Maman !  They  're  here,  and  M.  Dupont 
wants  to  apologize.  It  was  a  misunderstanding,  and 
please  don't  let 's  have  any  quarrelling  before  visitors. 
[To  Julie]  Go  and  help  them  to  get  their  things 
off. 

Julie  goes  out  to  welcome  the  arrivals.  M.  and  Ma- 
dame Mairaut  come  in  at  the  same  moment  as  M.  and 
Madame  Pouchelet,  Julie  helping  the  latter  to  take  off 
their  wraps.  M.  Pouchelet  is  in  evening  dress,  Madame 
Pouchelet  in  a  ball  dress. 

JULIE.  How  good  of  you  to  come.  My  husband  and 
I  are  so  delighted. 

POUCHELET.  I  promised  your  husband  we  would  look 
in.  Otherwise  we  should  have  gone  straight  home.  The 
Prefet  kept  us  longer  than  we  wished,  and  we  neither  of 
us  like  late  hours.  We  can  only  stay  a  moment. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [pushing  forward  a  chair  for  Madame 
Pouchelet]  Won't  you  sit  down? 

ANTONIN  [to  Pouchelet]  Naturally  the  Prefet  was 
only  too  glad  to  get  you  to  come. 

POUCHELET.  Yes.  There  is  a  scheme  on  foot  for  re- 
classifying  the  roads  in  the  Department. 

ANTONIN  [with  an  assumption  of  great  interest] 
Really ! 


130  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [following  suit]  Reclassifying  the 
roads  ?  Most  interesting ! 

ANTONIN.  It  is  a  matter  of  the  greatest  importance. 
And  you,  of  course,  are  the  very  man  to  give  him  the  nec- 
essary information. 

POUCHELET  [pompously]  I  flatter  myself  I  do  know 
something  of  the  subject. 

DUPONT.  It  is  a  question  I  have  also  had  a  great  deal 
to  do  with.  Twelve  years  ago  I  printed  — 

POUCHELET.     I  intend  to  make  — 

DUPONT.    No ;  it  was  thirteen  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [to  her  husband]  Listen,  dear:  M. 
Pouchelet  is-  speaking. 

MAIRAUT.     Yes,  yes;    I  am  listening. 

POUCHELET.  I  intend  to  make  an  important  speech 
on  the  subject  at  the  Council.  But  you  will  read  the 
report  in  the  papers. 

ANTONIN.  I  should  think  so.  We  must  not  miss  that, 
Julie,  must  we  ? 

POUCHELET.  Oh,  madame,  I  'm  afraid  my  speech  is 
not  likely  to  interest  you. 

ANTONIN.  On  the  contrary.  My  wife  only  likes  read- 
ing about  serious  subjects.  Why  the  other  day  I  found 
her  reading  —  who  was  it  ?  that  English  writer :  what 
was  his  name,  dearest? 

JULIE.     Never  mind. 

ANTONIN  [going  over  to  Julie,  summing  up  her  points'] 
She  's  a  wonderful  little  woman,  my  wife.  Are  n't  you, 
dearest  ?  You  are  n't  cold,  are  you  ?  I  am  always  tell- 
ing you  you  don't  wrap  up  enough.  [To  Pouchelet]  She 
is  charming,  isn't  she?  And  the  most  devoted  wife! 
[To  Julie]  Aren't  you  a  devoted  wife,  dear? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Antonin,  are  n't  you  going  to  offer 
M.  and  Madame  Pouchelet  a  little  refreshment? 

ANTONIN.  Of  course.  [To  his  wife]  Will  you 
ring? 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  131 

Julie  rings  the  bell.  The  maid  comes  in  almost  at  once 
with  bottles  of  beer  on  a  tray,  and  glasses. 

JULIE  [to  the  maid]     Put  it  there. 

ANTONIN  [to  Madame  Pouchelet~\  My  \rife  is  a  won- 
derful manager.  We  are  really  hardly  settled  in  here. 
Yet  everything  is  always  ready  directly  one  wants  it. 
May  I  give  you  a  glass  of  beer? 

The  glasses  which  Julie  has  poured  out  are  handed 
round.  Caroline  comes  in. 

DUPONT.  M.  Pouchelet,  allow  me  to  present  to  you 
my  second  daughter,  Caroline. 

POUCHELET  [frozen  J     Madame. 

ANTONIN  [correcting  him}  Mademoiselle.  Mile. 
Caroline  has  always  refused  to  marry.  She  prefers  to 
devote  her  life  to  her  art. 

MME.  POUCHELET.  You  are  an  artist,  mademoiselle? 
How  delightful.  I  adore  artists. 

CAROLINE.     I  only  paint  a  little  on  china. 

ANTONIN.    And  she  does  it  most  beautifully. 

POUCHELET.  You  must  send  something  to  our  local 
exhibition. 

ANTONIN.  Excellent!  M.  Pouchelet  is  right.  Why 
have  you  never  sent  anything? 

CAROLINE.  I  only  paint  china  plates,  knick-knacks, 
and  so  on. 

ANTONIN.  Just  for  your  own  amusement.  [To  Pou- 
chelet] My  sister-in-law  just  does  it  to  amuse  herself. 
But  I  am  sure  if  she  took  the  trouble  — 

CAROLINE.    But  I  don't  do  it  to  amuse  myself. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Oh,  yes,  you  do. 

ANTONIN.    Merely  to  amuse  yourself. 

DUPONT.    Just  for  your  own  amusement. 

ANTONIN.  And  the  artist  can  put  just  as  much  of  his 
art  into  small  subjects.  Look  at  Meissonier. 

MME.  POUCHELET.  Of  course.  They  give  just  as 
great  scope  for  the  imagination. 


132  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

CAROLINE.  But  I  only  copy  what  the  people  at  the 
shop  send  me. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Another  glass  of  beer,  Madame  Pou- 
chelet?  It  is  French  beer  and  can't  — 

MME.  POUCHELET.  Not  just  now,  thank  you.  [To 
Caroline]  The  shop  people,  mademoiselle? 

CAROLINE.  Yes,  madame,  the  people  who  keep  the 
shop  I  work  for.  They  pay  me  quite  good  wages  for 
what  I  do. 

MME.  POUCHELET.     I  see.     [A  silence], 

ANTONIN  [sotto  voce,  taking  Caroline  a  glass  of  beer] 
Be  silent,  can't  you? 

CAROLINE  [to  him,  puzzled]     What  is  it? 

ANTONIN  [to  Madame  Pouchelet,  leading  her  up  to  a 
picture]  Madame  Pouchelet,  you  understand  pictures, 
I  know.  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  I  paid  a  long  price 
for  it.  [They  go  on  talking]. 

CAROLINE  [to  Madame  Mairaut,  in  a  low  voice]  Have 
I  done  anything  I  should  n't  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [drily']  Oh,  no!  Far  from  it!  [She 
rises  and  goes  over  to  Madame  Pouchelet]. 

MME.  POUCHELET  [coming  down  stage  with  Antonin] 
I  don't  care  much  about  pictures  unless  they  tell  a  story. 
What  is  that  one  about? 

JULIE.    It  is  an  engraving  of  a  picture  by  Gerard  Dow. 

MME.  POUCHELET.     Never  heard  of  him. 

JULIE.  He  was  a  Dutch  painter.  Seventeenth 
century. 

MME.  POUCHELET.  Really !  But  of  course  you  know 
more  about  these  things  than  I  do.  A  propos,  M.  Du- 
pont,  did  you  go  to  the  lecture  the  other  day  on  women's 
rights  ? 

POUCHELET  [laughing]     Oh,  yes ;  ha !   ha ! 

MME.  POUCHELET  [to  Julie]  I  should  n't  be  sur- 
prised if  you,  madame,  had  some  sympathy  with  such 
opinions  ? 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  133 

JULIE  [evasively]     I  don't  know. 

ANTONIN  [laughing]  Come,  confess,  my  dear.  Just 
a  little,  perhaps  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Woman  the  equal  of  man ! 

JULIE  [mildly']     Why  not? 

MAIRAUT.  There  are  some  women  who  would  n't 
gain  much  by  that. 

MME.  DUPONT.     But  not  all. 

DUPONT.    Women  lawyers ! 

MME.  POUCHELET.    Women  doctors  ! 

POUCHELET.    Women  with  votes  ! 

ANTONIN  [laughing]     What  a  joke. 

DUPONT  [laughing]     Women  with  votes  ! 

POUCHELET.  I  call  that  rich.  [All  three  are  con- 
vulsed with  merriment]. 

DUPONT.  Think  of  it.  Women  in  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies ! 

ANTONIN.     Women  Senators ! 

POUCHELET.    Women  in  the  Ministry ! 

DUPONT.  In  the  Chamber  they  would  want  to  keep 
their  hats  on. 

POUCHELET.  Yes  [to  Julie],  Eh,  Madame  Mairaut? 
They  'd  insist  on  keeping  on  their  hats  as  they  do  at  the 
theatres. 

MME.  POUCHELET.  And  at  election  times  they  'd  go 
from  house  to  house  asking  for  votes.  The  modern 
women  would  enjoy  that. 

POUCHELET.  And  this  parliament  elected  by  women, 
what  would  it  be  like  ?  [More  laughter]  A  Chamber  of 
Deputies  chosen  by  women ! 

JULIE  [a  little  annoyed]  Really,  gentlemen,  judging 
by  the  results  you  've  achieved  so  far  by  keeping  the 
government  to  yourselves  I  don't  think  you  need  fear 
that  women  will  do  much  worse.  [The  laughter  dies 
down  uneasily]. 

POUCHELET  [with  pompous  solemnity]     I  know  it  is 


134  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

the  fashion  nowadays  to  decry  all  our  elective  assemblies. 
But,  as  I  am  myself,  in  my  humble  way,  one  of  the 
people's  representatives,  I  cannot  allow  such  views  to 
pass  without  protest.  [An  awful  silence], 

JULIE  [apologizing]  I  had  no  intention  of  saying 
anything  that  could  wound  you,  M.  Pouchelet. 

MME.  POUCHELET.    We  are  sure  of  that,  dear  madame. 

POUCHELET  [to  his  wife]  And  now,  my  dear,  it  is 
time  for  us  to  be  going. 

ANTONIN.  You  must  forgive  my  wife's  little  slip, 
dear  monsieur. 

POUCHELET.     It  is  nothing  —  nothing  at  all. 

ANTONIN.  You  must  n't  go  like  this.  Another  glass 
of  beer? 

MME.  POUCHELET.  You  are  very  good.  It  has  been 
so  close  to-day. 

ANTONIN.  Julie,  a  glass  of  beer  for  Madame  Pou- 
chelet. [To  her]  Yes;  the  heat  this  afternoon  has  been 
quite  oppressive.  [To  Julie]  Where's  that  beer? 

JULIE  [who  has  tried  the  various  bottles,  confused] 
I  will  send  for  some  more.  These  are  empty. 

ANTONIN.    Really ! 

MME.  POUCHELET.  Oh,  please  don't  trouble.  Please ! 
No;  you  really  must  not.  We  can  have  something  when 
we  get  home.  [Going]  Our  things  are  here,  I  think. 

JULIE.    Let  me  help  you. 

ANTONIN.     I  will  come  and  put  you  on  your  way. 

POUCHELET  [declining]  Thank  you,  monsieur.  We 
know  the  way. 

M.  and  Madame  Pouchelet  bow  formally  and  coldly  to 
each  in  turn  and  go  out:  Julie  goes  with  them.  There 
is  a  silence.  Antonin  paces  the  room  irritably.  Madame 
Mairaut  grins. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife,  in  a  low  voice,  after  glancing  at 
the  others]  I  think  it 's  time  we  went  to  bed. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Very  well,  dear. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  135 

Formal  bows,  Monsieur,  Madame,  are  exchanged. 
The  Duponts  go  out  and  Julie  returns. 

ANTONIN  [his  arms  folded,  sternly}  So  there  was  no 
more  beer? 

JULIE.     No,  dear. 

ANTONIN.     It 's  intolerable. 

JULIE.  Here  are  the  three  bottles.  You  told  me  to 
buy  three  bottles.  There  they  are. 

ANTONIN.  Nonsense!  You  make  me  ridiculous.  I 
press  Madame  Pouchelet  to  have  another  glass  and  there 
is  n't  one.  It 's  preposterous  ! 

JULIE.     It  is  not  my  fault. 

ANTONIN.     I  suppose  you  think  it 's  mine. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Evidently. 

ANTONIN.  Besides,  I  have  no  recollection  of  saying 
three  bottles. 

JULIE.     I  assure  you. 

ANTONIN.  I  have  no  recollection  whatever  of  it.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  certain  I  said  buy  four  or  five. 

JULIE.     No !     Three ! 

ANTONIN.  You  make  me  look  like  a  fool.  These 
people  will  think  I  was  laughing  at  them.  You  make  me 
look  like  a  fool,  and  that  is  a  thing  I  won't  have. 

CAROLINE.  M.  Antonin,  I  was  there  when  you  spoke 
to  Julie.  You  did  say  three  bottles. 

ANTONIN.  My  dear  Caroline,  I  love  you  very  much, 
but  I  can't  help  pointing  out  to  you  that  the  best  possible 
way  to  aggravate  a  dispute  between  husband  and  wife  is 
to  interfere  in  it  either  on  one  side  or  on  the  other.  If 
you  don't  realize  that  already,  you  may  take  it  from  me. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  If  you  spoke  less,  mademoiselle,  it 
would  certainly  be  better  for  all  parties. 

CAROLINE.    Why?    What  have  I  said? 

ANTONIN.  Among  other  things  you  might  refrain 
from  proclaiming  on  the  housetops  that  you  are  reduced 
to  working  for  your  living. 


136  The  Three  Daughters        Act  II 

CAROLINE.     There  is  nothing  dishonorable  in  that. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Very  likely.  But  one  does  n't  talk 
about  it. 

ANTONIN.  I  thought  every  moment  you  were  going  to 
ask  M.  Pouchelet  for  an  order.  Not  very  pleasant  for 
us,  that. 

CAROLINE.  I  am  sorry.  I  did  n't  mean  to  do  anything 
wrong.  [She  begins  to  cry]  But  I  'm  so  unfortunate. 
I  always  make  mistakes. 

ANTONIN  [irritably]  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  my  dear 
Caroline,  don't  begin  to  cry.  There  's  no  earthly  good 
in  that. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    There  's  really  nothing  to  cry  about. 

JULIE  [going  to  her]  Caroline!  Don't  cry,  dear. 
[She  takes  her  away]. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Now,  my  son,  we  are  going  to  say 
good-night. 

ANTONIN.    Good-night.     [He  kisses  her  absently]. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  You  're  not  angry  with  us,  dear,  are 
you?  You  wanted  to  marry  Julie,  you  know.  Good- 
night. 

M.  and  Madame  Mairaut  go  out.  Antonin,  left  alone, 
goes  to  the  bell  and  rings  it.  The  maid  comes  in. 

ANTONIN  [to  the  servant]  Put  out  the  lights.  You 
can  leave  the  two  on  the  mantelpiece.  Close  those  shut- 
ters. [The  maid  does  so  and  goes  out.  Julie  returns] 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

JULIE.     I  am  listening. 

ANTONIN.  I  do  not  wish  Caroline  to  remain  with  us 
any  longer. 

JULIE.    Why?    What  has  she  done? 

ANTONIN.    You  know  well  enough. 

JULIE.    No,  I  do  not. 

ANTONIN.     She  gets  on  my  nerves. 

JULIE.     Explain,  please. 

ANTONIN.     It  is  not  my  business  to  give  explanations. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  137 

I  am  the  master  in  my  own  house.  I  shall  be  obliged  if 
you  will  arrange  with  Caroline  to  bring  her  visit  to  a 
close  on  Monday. 

JULIE.  But  she  was  to  stay  till  the  end  of  the  month. 
She  will  want  to  know  why.  What  am  I  to  say  to 
her? 

ANTONIN.     Whatever  you  please. 

JULIE.     She  will  be  hurt. 

ANTONIN.     I  don't  care  about  that. 

JULIE.    But  I  do  care. 

ANTONIN.  If  you  won't  tell  her,  I  will,  in  a  way  which 
won't  admit  of  any  misunderstanding. 

JULIE.     She  will  be  angry. 

ANTONIN.     Let  her. 

JULIE.  But  if  you  two  quarrel  where  shall  I  be  able 
to  see  her?  Here? 

ANTONIN.    No.    I  forbid  you  to  do  so. 

JULIE.    Have  you  the  right  to  forbid  me? 

ANTONIN.     Certainly. 

JULIE.     Why? 

ANTONIN.  Once  more,  because  I  am  master  here:  be- 
cause the  husband  is  the  master  in  his  own  house. 

JULIE.  That  was  not  what  you  told  me  while  we  were 
engaged. 

ANTONIN.    I  dare  say. 

JULIE.    You  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  me? 

ANTONIN.    Yes;   I  have. 

JULIE.    Well? 

ANTONIN.  When  you  have  opinions  of  the  outrageous 
description  you  gave  vent  to  this  evening,  please  keep 
them  to  yourself. 

JULIE.     Haven't  I  the  right  to  have  opinions? 

ANTONIN.  Nonsense !  Once  for  all,  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  that  you  shall  obey  me  and  not  spoil  my  pros- 
pects. M.  and  Madame  Pouchelet  are  people  of  impor- 
tance. They  might  be  useful  to  me,  and  if  you  offend 


138  The  Three  Daughters  ~      Act  II 

them  with  your  absurdities  you  will  be  wanting  in  your 
duty.  Marriage  is  a  business  partnership. 

JULIE.  Then  I  want  to  see  the  accounts.  They  say 
you  are  doing  badly  at  the  bank.  Is  that  true  ? 

ANTONIN.  Women  know  nothing  about  such  things. 
You  look  after  your  household  and  leave  the  rest  to  me. 
Under  the  terms  of  our  marriage  the  management  of  our 
affairs  is  in  my  hands.  I  manage  them  to  the  best  of  my 
ability.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you. 

JULIE.  In  other  words,  I  am  a  business  partner  who 
has  to  keep  her  eyes  shut  and  say  nothing. 

ANTONIN.  My  dear,  it 's  quite  useless  starting  the 
lecture  about  women's  rights  all  over  again.  I  heard  it 
the  other  evening.  Leave  that  sort  of  thing  to  old  maids 
with  beards.  If  I  were  willing  to  listen  to  you,  you  'd 
reel  off  the  whole  catalogue  of  grievances  against  the 
laws  which  make  women  slaves.  I  know. 

JULIE.  No:  it  is  not  a  question  of  law.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  social  usage.  [A  pause]  What  is  wrong  is  not 
that  there  is  such  and  such  a  provision  in  the  Code.  The 
real  evil  is  that  our  parents  married  us  as  they  did 
marry  us. 

ANTONIN.    They  did  as  most  parents  do. 

JULIE.     And  so  most  marriages  are  unhappy. 

ANTONIN.    If  you  really  loved  me  — 

JULIE.  But  I  don't  love  you.  That  is  just  the  point. 
And  you  don't  love  me.  And  here  we  are  chained  to  one 
another. 

ANTONIKC.    Nonsense !     I  not  love  you  ? 

JULIE.     No,  indeed.     You  don't  love  me. 

ANTONIN.  Come,  come,  you  are  talking  foolishly. 
It 's  late.  Let 's  go  to  bed.  Things  will  be  all  right  to- 
morrow morning.  [He  goes  into  the  bedroom]. 

JULIE  [sits  staring  in  front  of  her  for  awhile:  then 
she  says  to  herself]  No :  things  will  never  be  all  right. 
Never.  Never. 


Act  II         Of  Monsieur  Dupont  139 

ANTONIN  [calls]  Are  you  coming,  Julie?  [Julie 
starts  as  if  she  had  been  dreaming.  She  looks  round  her 
in  a  dazed  way]  Come  along! 

JULIE  [with  a  deep  sigh,  her  face  showing  a  mingled 
expression  of  profound  disgust  and  sorrowful  resigna- 
tion] I  am  coming.  [  She  goes  slowly  towards  the  door 
of  the  bedroom]. 


ACT    III 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  the  first  Act.  It  is  Sep- 
tember. Dupont  and  his  wife  are  sitting  together. 
There  is  a  pile  of  account  books  on  the  table  between 
them. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife,  who  is  holding  a  paper"]  You 
see  what  the  accounts  say.  They  aren't  brilliant.  [To 
the  maid  who  enters]  As  soon  as  Mile.  Caroline  comes 
in  ask  her  to  come  here. 

SERVANT.     Yes,  sir.     [The  maid  goes  out]. 

MME.  DUPONT.  The  turnover  is  smaller  than  last 
year. 

DUPONT.  The  profits  are  down  to  nothing.  I  'm 
wrong.  112  francs  17.  Splendid  things,  accounts! 

MME.  DUPONT.    What 's  to  happen  next? 

DUPONT.  I  don't  know.  One  thing  is  certain.  Things 
can't  go  on  like  this. 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  are  we  to  do,  then? 

DUPONT.    Next  year  it  will  be  worse,  unless  — 

MME.  DUPONT.    Unless? 

DUPONT.  The  fact  is  the  business  wants  new  plant. 
At  present  we  are  using  an  old  machine  worked  by  hand, 
which  I  inherited  from  my  father.  We  have  a  gas  en- 
gine not  worth  twopence.  In  fact,  there  's  only  one  hope 
for  us. 

MME  DUPONT.     What  is  that? 

DUPONT.     To  get  fresh  capital  somehow. 

MME.  DUPONT.    That 's  not  very  likely. 

DUPONT.  Who  knows  ?  It 's  lucky  for  you  your  hus- 
140 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  141 

band  is  no  fool,  my  dear.  I  am  going  to  see  if  I  can  get 
you  out  of  this  mess.  [Caroline  comes  in]  Here  is 
Caroline.  Go  and  find  Julie.  I  shall  want  you  both  in 
a  moment.  I  will  call  you. 

Madame  Dupont  goes  out. 

DUPONT  [to  Caroline']  My  dear  child,  I  have  asked 
you  to  come  here  because  I  want  to  have  a  serious  talk 
with  you.  After  our  long  arguments  you  have  at  last 
come  to  see  that  it  is  your  duty  to  accept  the  legacy  from 
your  aunt.  Your  sister  Angele  is  coming  here. 

CAROLINE.     Coming  here? 

DUPONT.  But  that  is  another  matter.  We  will  dis- 
cuss that  in  a  moment  with  Julie  and  her  mother.  They 
are  in  the  next  room.  At  present  I  am  speaking  only  of 
you.  All  difficulties  are  removed  now  —  I  had  a  lot  of 
trouble  over  it,  by  the  way  —  and  to-morrow  at  four  at 
the  lawyer's  you  will  receive  the  sum  of  thirty-one  thou- 
sand three  hundred  and  eighteen  francs  and  a  few  cen- 
times. Ahem !  My  dear  Caroline,  you  are  old  enough 
to  know  what  you  are  about.  Still  you  are  not  one  of 
those  undutiful  children  who  throw  aside  all  obedience 
to  their  fathers  as  soon  as  they  are  of  age.  You  con- 
tinue, I  am  sure,  to  recognize  my  right  at  least  to  give 
you  advice.  I  have  lived  longer  than  you,  I  am  a  man 
of  business,  and  I  can  clearly  be  of  use  to  you  when  you 
want  to  invest  your  money.  Have  you  any  plans  as  to 
this  so  far? 

CAROLINE.    I  had  some  idea  — 

DUPONT.    May  I  know  what  it  is? 

CAROLINE.    I  would  rather  not  say. 

DUPONT.    Not  say ! 

CAROLINE.    Yes. 

DUPONT.     Indeed !     Oh,  in  that  case  —  [shrug] 

CAROLINE.    You  don't  mind,  father? 

DUPONT  [much  put  out,  but  endeavoring  to  control 
himself]  Not  at  all.  By  no  means.  Then  there  's  noth- 


142  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

ing  more  to  be  said.  I  am  a  little  surprised,  of  course; 
hurt  even;  greatly  hurt,  in  fact. 

CAROLINE.     I  am  sorry,  father. 

DUPONT.     No  matter !     No  matter ! 

CAROLINE.     You  understand  — 

DUPONT.  I  understand  that  you  do  not  trust  your 
father.  That  is  what  I  understand.  But  have  your  own 
way.  I  ask  nothing. 

CAROLINE.    Are  you  vexed  with  me  ? 

DUPONT.  Oh,  no.  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  Only 
when  you  have  given  everything  you  possess  to  some 
religious  community  or  other,  I  should  like  to  know  what 
you  will  have  to  live  upon  when  you  are  old.  I  assume, 
of  course,  that  it  is  some  community  you  are  thinking  of. 
[Caroline  is  silent]  You  admit  it? 

CAROLINE.    No.     I  would  rather  say  nothing  about  it. 

DUPONT.     It  is  so,  all  the  same? 

CAROLINE.     Please,  father ! 

DUPONT.     You  won't  give  me  any  idea? 

CAROLINE.     No. 

DUPONT.     You  refuse,  then?     You  refuse  absolutely? 

CAROLINE.     I  have  the  right  to  do  so,  have  I  not? 

DUPONT.     Clearly.     You  are  old  enough. 

CAROLINE.     Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more. 

DUPONT.  Very  well.  [After  a  moment,  breaking  into 
a  passion]  So  this  is  my  reward !  This  is  the  result  of 
having  sacrificed  my  whole  life  for  my  daughters !  You 
do  not  even  trust  me  as  much  as  you  would  trust  any 
little  attorney  you  consulted. 

CAROLINE.     Father !     Of  course  I  trust  you. 

DUPONT  [furiously]  Hold  your  tongue.  You  are 
heartless  and  undutiful.  I  did  not  expect  this. 

CAROLINE.     Please  don't  be  angry,  father. 

DUPONT.  Angry?  Yes,  I  am  angry,  and  I  have  good 
reason.  [Striking  the  table]  Damnation !  This  is  too 
much!  To  have  lived  to  be  sixty-two  and  be  insulted 
like  this  [He  strides  up  and  down  the  room]. 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  148 

CAROLINE.  I  thought  I  could  —  I  have  only  disposed 
of  part  of  the  money. 

DUPONT  [stopping  short]     What? 

CAROLINE.    I  have  only  disposed  of  part  of  the  money. 

DUPONT  [mollified,  becoming  tenderly  reproachful 
and  coming  to  sit  by  her]  My  dear  child,  why  did  n't 
you  say  so  at  once? 

CAROLINE.    You  gave  me  no  time. 

DUPONT.    How  much  is  gone? 

CAROLINE.     Fifteen  thousand  francs. 

DUPONT.  Um !  That  is  a  large  sum.  But  the  sixteen 
thousand  that  remain? 

CAROLINE.    I  meant  to  ask  your  advice  about  that. 

DUPONT  [rising]  Ah,  well,  my  dear,  I  have  been 
thinking  this  over.  Let 's  consider  what  openings  there 
are  for  capital.  Suppose  you  invest  it?  Gilt-edged  se- 
curities bring  in  two  and  a  half  per  cent.  If  you  take 
something  rather  more  speculative,  you  may  get  four. 
Then  there  are  the  big  industrial  companies.  But  with 
them,  too,  there  are  risks  to  be  faced.  Foreign  compe- 
tition is  more  and  more  threatening.  The  struggles  be- 
tween labor  and  capital  are  reaching  an  acute  phase. 

CAROLINE.    M.  Antonin  Mairaut  has  been  to  see  me. 

DUPONT.  The  scoundrel !  I  11  bet  he  wanted  you  to 
invest  the  money  in  his  bank. 

CAROLINE.     He  did  suggest  it. 

DUPONT.  You  see !  I  guessed  as  much.  You  sent  him 
about  his  business,  I  hope? 

CAROLINE.     I  said  I  would  think  about  it. 

DUPONT.  That 's  right.  But  what  a  fright  you  gave 
me.  To  invest  your  money  in  a  bank.  Nothing  could  be 
more  risky.  Well,  as  we  were  saying,  —  no  public  com- 
.  panics,  no  industrials,  no  shares  in  banks.  What  remains  ? 

CAROLINE.     I  don't  know. 

DUPONT.  There  remains  commercial  enterprise,  trade. 
But  do  you  know  anyone  engaged  in  trade  who  will  let 
you  put  capital  into  his  business  ? 


144  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

CAROLINE.     I  think  not. 

DUPONT.  We  must  put  our  heads  together.  I  confess 
I  can  think  of  no  one.  Madame  Grand  jean? 

CAROLINE.  Father!  Madame  Grandjean  is  divorced. 
You  know  quite  well  I  refused  even  to  accept  employ- 
ment from  her. 

DUPONT.  That  is  true.  More  fool  you,  by  the  way. 
Still  —  M.  Darbout? 

CAROLINE.     He  is  a  Protestant. 

DUPONT.  Well,  then,  I  don't  see.  There  is  no  one, 
in  fact. 

CAROLINE.     But  you,  father.     If  you  would  do  it. 

DUPONT.      If  I    would    do    what?      Manage    it    for 


you 


CAROLINE.     Yes. 

DUPONT.  It  is  a  great  responsibility.  I  don't  know 
whether  —  What  interest  would  you  expect  ? 

CAROLINE.     Whatever  you  thought  right,  father. 

DUPONT.  Well,  I  will  speak  to  your  mother  about  it. 
[As  if  suddenly  making  up  his  mind]  No,  I  won't. 
I  '11  do  it.  No  one  shall  say  I  hesitated  to  do  all  I  could 
for  my  daughter.  Kiss  me,  my  dear.  I  '11  do  it. 

CAROLINE.     Thank  you,  father. 

DUPONT.  And  you  would  still  rather  not  tell  me  what 
you  are  doing  with  the  other  fifteen  thousand. 

CAROLINE.     Please,  father! 

DUPONT.  Very  well.  You  are  your  own  mistress. 
I  '11  have  the  necessary  documents  prepared.  Don't  you 
worry  about  it.  I  will  arrange  everything  beforehand. 
You  will  have  nothing  to  do  but  sign.  [He  looks  at  his 
watch]  Three  o'clock.  Now  there  is  that  other  matter 
we  have  to  talk  of.  [He  goes  to  the  door  and  calls] 
Come  in,  both  of  you.  [Julie  and  Madame  Dupont 
enter]  Sit  down  [When  they  are  seated,  he  says] 
My  dears,  I  wanted  you  all  to  come  here  that  we  may 
decide  how  we  are  to  receive  Angele.  It  is  rather  a  diffi- 


Act  III      Of  Monsieur  Dupont  145 

cult  question.  You  know  her  life  in  Paris  is  —  ahem !  — 
highly  reprehensible.  Ought  we  to  let  her  come  here? 
Ought  we  to  meet  her,  for  instance,  at  the  station? 

JULIE.  Papa,  what  has  Angele  done?  Now  that  I 
am  married  surely  I  may  know?  People  always  stop 
talking  about  her  when  I  come  in.  I  remember  her  quite 
well. 

MME.  DUPONT.  But  you  were  only  five  when  she  went 
away. 

DUPONT.  You  understand,  my  children,  how  painful 
this  subject  is  both  for  you  and  for  me.  I  will  spare 
you  the  details  as  far  as  possible.  It  is  enough  that  you 
should  know,  Julie,  that  when  Angele  was  seventeen  she 
was  obliged  to  leave  her  home  because  —  because  — 

MME.  DUPONT  [simply]  Because  she  was  about  to 
become  a  mother. 

JULIE.    She  went  away? 

DUPONT.    Yes. 

JULIE.     Of  her  own  free  will? 

DUPONT.    I  sent  her  away. 

JULIE.    Ah ! 

DUPONT.  As  I  said,  the  subject  is  a  very  painful  one. 
Let  us  get  it  over  as  quickly  as  possible.  She  is  coming 
here  to-day.  [He  looks  at  his  watch]  She  is  on  her  way 
now.  Her  train  arrived  five  minutes  ago.  Now  I  hope 
you  will  all  of  you  behave  with  dignity,  and  neither  be 
too  affectionate,  which  would  be  out  of  the  question,  nor 
too  cold,  which  would  be  unkind. 

JULIE.  Have  you  heard  anything  of  her  since  she 
left  home? 

DUPONT.    Yes. 

JULIE.    And  her  behavior? 

DUPONT.  Far  from  what  it  should  be,  I  'm  afraid. 
Still  — 

CAROLINE.  Father,  you  make  too  light  of  all  this.  We 
have  heard  df  her  three  times.  First  when  her  baby 


146  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

died.  Next  we  were  told  that  she  was  singing  at  a  music 
hall  and  was  almost  penniless.  The  third  time  we  heard 
that  she  was  rich,  rich  without  working.  When  I  think 
of  it  all  I  am  sorry  I  consented  to  meet  her. 

JULIE.  But  she  could  n't  get  her  share  of  the  legacy 
unless  you  did.  You  could  n't  rob  her  of  this  money 
however  you  feel  towards  her. 

CAROLINE.  That  was  what  decided  me.  But  there  is 
no  reason  why  I  should  see  her  here. 

DUPONT.  I  shall  see  her.  Julie  will  see  her.  So  will 
your  mother.  Why  should  you  do  differently  from 
us? 

MME.  DUPONT.  She  was  very  fond  of  you,  Caroline; 
and  you  were  fond  of  her.  Come,  come,  you  must  not  be 
so  hard.  One  should  have  compassion  for  those  who 
have  suffered  as  she  has  done. 

CAROLINE  [after  a  pause]  Very  well.  I  will  do  as 
you  wish. 

DUPONT.  That 's  right.  At  the  same  time,  I  have  no 
intention  of  going  from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  There 
will  be  no  question  of  asking  her  to  stay,  or  even  of  in- 
viting her  to  dinner.  That  is  agreed,  is  it  not? 

CAROLINE.  Yes.  And  now  I  am  going  downstairs  to 
the  office  [She  goes  out], 

DUPONT.  You,  Julie,  had  better  go  to  your  room. 
[She  goes]  In  ten  minutes  she  will  be  here. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Well,  I  must  say  if  she  were  my 
daughter,  1  should  have  been  at  the  station  long 
ago. 

DUPONT.     Do  you  suppose  I  have  n't  wanted  to  go  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.     Why  didn't  you,  then? 

DUPONT.  What  would  people  say?  Everyone  knows 
me  here.  On  the  platform  I  should  have  met  a  dozen 
people  who  would  have  asked  me  whom  I  was  meeting. 
And,  besides,  all  things  considered,  it  looks  more  digni- 
fied to  receive  her  here.  [Pondering]  I  've  been  asking 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  147 

myself  for  the  last  fortnight  what  I  should  say  when  we 
do  meet. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Give  her  a  kiss.  The  rest  will  come 
easily. 

DUPONT.     You  think  I  should  kiss  her? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

DUPONT.  I  think  so,  too.  At  the  same  time  we  must 
remember  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  her  way  of  life.  It  is 
a  difficult  question.  And  then  what  am  I  to  say  to  her? 
Ought  I  to  refer  to  the  past  ?  I  must  not  seem  to  be  for- 
giving her,  of  course.  I  could  n't  do  that.  I  could  n't 
possibly.  On  the  other  hand,  since  she  is  coming,  I  can 
hardly  —  Confound  it,  it 's  all  extremely  awkward. 
Eh? 

MME.  DUPONT.    I  can't  advise  you. 

DUPONT  [still  thinking  it  out]  Of  course,  she  is  my 
daughter.  Still,  I  have  not  seen  her  for  eighteen  years. 
[Peevishly]  I  thought 'I  should  never  set  eyes  on  her 
again.  In  the  early  days,  when  she  first  went  away,  I 
was  terribly  distressed.  But  that  could  n't  last,  could 
it  ?  And  then,  you  understand  —  Well,  well,  you  must 
advise  me.  I  have  prepared  something  to  say,  so  as  not 
to  leave  everything  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment.  If 
one  does  n't  think  things  out  beforehand,  one  always  says 
too  much  or  too  little.  So,  as  I  said,  I  have  prepared 
something.  I  even  wrote  it  out,  but  I  know  it  by  heart. 
You  can  imagine  how  upset  I  am  with  all  this.  Here  it  is : 
"  My  child "  —  I  think  it  best  to  say  "  my  child." 
"  Angele  "  would  be  too  familiar  and  "  my  daughter  "  too 
formal.  "  My  child  "  —  [breaking  off]  And  what 
makes  it  all  the  harder  is  that  I  've  no  idea  what  she 
will  say  to  me.  Her  letters  are  very  properly  expressed, 
very  properly.  Still,  will  she  cry?  Will  she  break 
down  ?  Will  she  faint  ?  I  don't  know.  It 's  impos- 
sible to  know.  Dear  me,  I  wish  the  next  half  hour  were 
over.  However :  "  My  child,  I  thank  you  for  having 


148  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

come."  —  The  fact  is  I  ought  to  tell  you  I  have  n't  given 
Caroline  quite  a  true  account  of  how  things  stood.  I 
thought  it  wiser  not. 

MME.  DUPONT.     What  do  you  mean? 

DUPONT.  It 's  this  way.  Caroline  is  the  one  who 
could  not  get  her  legacy  without  Angele's  signature. 
Not  the  other  way  about. 

MME.  DUPONT.    But  you  said  — 

DUPONT.  Yes;  I  did  misrepresent  matters  a  little. 
You  see  Caroline  would  never  have  agreed  to  meet  An- 
gele if  she  had  known  that  it  was  she  who  needed  An- 
gele's presence,  not  Angele  hers.  Angele  is  the  executor 
under  the  will.  In  fact,  it  is  she  who  is  doing  us  a  ser- 
vice. But  if  we  go  into  all  that  we  shall  never  be  done. 
Well,  I  say  to  her:  "  My  child,  I  thank  you  for  having 
come.  Let  us  not  speak  of  the  past.  I  only  wish  to  re- 
member one  thing,  that  you  have  not  visited  upon  your 
sister  Caroline  the  resentment  which  doubtless  I  inspire 
in  you.  I  am  grateful  to  you."  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  [The  maid  comes  in]  Good  heavens,  here  she  is ! 
[Pointing  to  the  papers,  account  books,  etc.,  which  lie 
on  the  table]  And  that  fool  Courthezon  has  never  taken 
away  the  books.  [To  the  maid]  Wait  a  minute.  [To 
Madame  Dupont]  Come !  Come  this  way  !  You  can  tell 
me  whether  I  ought  to  make  any  change.  [In  a  low 
voice  to  the  maid]  Ask  her  to  wait  a  moment.  Say  I 
am  engaged.  [He  goes  out  with  Madame  Dupont.  The 
maid  shows  in  Angele.  She  is  a  woman  of  thirty-five, 
dressed  in  black,  very  quietly,  but  fashionably]. 

MAID.  Monsieur  *is  engaged,  but  I  don't  think  he  will 
be  long.  Whom  shall  I  say,  madame? 

ANGELE.     Madame  Angele  Dupont. 

MAID.     Madame  has  the  same  name  as  monsieur? 

ANGELE.     The  same. 

MAID.  Will  madame  please  be  seated?  [She  takes 
some  books  off  a  chair  and  goes  out]. 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  149 

ANGELE   [with  a  gesture  of  despondency,  to  herself] 
Nothing  is  as  it  used  to  be.     Nothing. 
Courthezon  comes  in. 

COURTHEZON.  M.  Dupont  asks  you  to  be  good  enough 
to  wait  five  minutes,  madame. 

ANGELE.  Certainly,  monsieur.  [Courthezon  collects 
the  books  and  papers,  looking  at  Angele  the  while  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye.  He  makes  as  if  to  go]  You  are 
M.  Courthezon,  are  you  not? 

COURTHEZON  [much  embarrassed]  Yes,  madame  — 
Mile.  Angele.  You  remember  me?  You  have  a  good 
memory.  Especially  as  I  am  not  quite  myself  just  now. 
I  have  many  things  to  worry  me.  But  that  is  a  long 
story.  [He  stands  facing  her,  the  books  and  papers 
under  his  arm]  I  recognized  you  at  once.  M.  Dupont 
told  me. 

ANGELE.    My  father  is  well  in  health? 

COURTHEZON  [embarrassed]  Quite  well.  They  are 
all  quite  well.  You,  too,  if  I  may  judge  by  your  looks? 

ANGELE.     Quite,  thank  you. 

COURTHEZON.    And  you  have  come  about  this  legacy? 

ANGELE.    Yes.     [A  silence]. 

COURTHEZON.  You  must  find  some  changes  down 
here? 

ANGELE.    Very  many.     I  hardly  know  the  place. 

COURTHEZON.  We  have  moved  since  you  went  away. 
The  house  where  the  press  used  to  be  was  pulled  down 
when  the  Rue  de  l'Arbre-a-Poires  was  rebuilt. 

ANGELE  [looking  round  her]  They  have  altered  the 
furniture  in  the  drawing-room. 

COURTHEZON.    That  was  ten  years  ago. 

ANGELE  [sadly]  If  I  had  come  here  without  warning, 
I  should  n't  have  known  I  was  in  my  father's  house. 

COURTHEZON.  It  is  so  long  since  you  left.  You  must 
feel  it  very  much  —  the  idea  that  you  are  to  see  him  again  ? 

ANGELE  [very  slowly]    Yes.    But  less  than  I  expected. 


150  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

When  I  got  my  father's  letter,  I  felt  as  if  I  should  faint. 
That  was  two  months  ago.  Since  then  I  have  thought  of 
this  moment  every  day.  I  have  wondered  so  often  what 
my  father  would  say  to  me  and  what  I  should  answer 
now  that  I  no  longer  feel  anything.  That  is  strange,  is 
it  not?  Strange  and  sad.  [She  sighs]  After  all,  M. 
Courthezon,  life  is  always  more  commonplace  than  we 
expect;  simpler,  but  less  beautiful.  [A  pause.  Sadly] 
And  besides,  I  have  seen  so  much. 

COURTHEZON.    You  have  suffered,  too? 

ANGELE.    A  little. 

COURTHEZON.     Eighteen  years,  is  it  not? 

ANGELE.     Yes.     Eighteen  years. 

COURTHEZON.  I  hear  M.  Dupont.  I  must  be  going. 
Au  revoir,  madame. 

Courthezon  goes  out.  A  moment  later  the  voice  of  Du- 
pont is  heard  without  through  the  half -open  door,  saying: 
"  Yes,  yes;  I  want  you  to  come  with  me."  Then  M.  and 
Madame  Dupont  come  in.  There  is  a  long  pause,  and 
finally  Dupont  says,  with  apparent  calm. 

DUPONT.     Good-morning,  Angele. 

ANGELE.    Good-morning,  father. 

They  hesitate  for  a  moment  as  to  whether  they  should 
kiss  one  another,  then  make  up  their  minds  to  do  so.  Du- 
pont places  a  chill  salute  on  either  cheek  of  Angele.  Still 
silent,  Angele  goes  up  to  Madame  Dupont  and  kisses  her 
with  the  same  frigidity. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Good-morning,  Angele. 

ANGELE.  Good-morning,  mother.  [They  look  at  one 
another  without  a  word], 

DUPONT  [overcoming  a  momentary  emotion]  Let  us 
sit  down.  [They  sit.  Then  he  addresses  Angele  in  the 
tone  he  might  have  used  if  she  had  only  gone  away  the 
previous  evening]  Thank  you  for  coming. 

ANGELE.  I  came  for  my  sister's  sake.  For  Caroline. 
I  was  very  fond  of  her.  [A  pause]  Is  she  married? 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  151 

DUPONT.     No.    She  has  never  wished  to  marry. 

ANGELE.    Yet  she  is  thirty-three. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife]     Thirty-three  or  thirty- four? 

MME.  DUPONT.     Thirty-three. 

ANGELE.     I  shall  see  her? 

DUPONT.    Yes.    We  will  let  her  know  you  are  here. 

ANGELE.    And  my  half-sister? 

DUPONT.     Julie? 

ANGELE.     Yes,  Julie. 

DUPONT.  Your  half-sister  is  married.  She  has  made 
a  good  match.  The  son  of  a  banker.  The  Mairauts. 
You  remember  M.  Mairaut,  the  grandfather? 

ANGELE.     No. 

DUPONT.  Oh,  yes;  an  old  man  with  a  long  white 
beard. 

ANGELE.    No. 

DUPONT.  Anyhow,  he  was  the  grandfather  of  M.  An- 
tonin  Mairaut,  Julie's  husband.  [He  points  to  the  door] 
She  is  in  there. 

ANGELE.     There? 

DUPONT  [speaking  rapidly  to  hide  his  mingled  emo- 
tion and  embarrassment]  Yes.  She  has  come  back  with 
her  husband  to  live  with  us  for  a  time.  Their  house  at 
St.  Laurent  is  flooded.  You  remember  the  house  at  St. 
Laurent  ? 

ANGELE.     Yes. 

DUPONT  [a*  before,  his  embarrassment  growing]  I 
told  them  they  ought  to  build  a  little  wall  along  the  river 
bank  or  their  house  would  be  flooded.  They  would  n't 
listen  to  me  and  this  is  the  consequence.  Happily  the 
water  is  going  down,  and  they  '11  be  able  to  go  home  to- 
morrow. But  they  should  have  built  a  wall  like  their 
neighbors.  Their  neighbors  built  a  wall  and  —  and 
that 's  how  it  was. 

ANGELE  [after  a  pause]  How  is  the  business  doing? 
Well? 


152  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

DUPONT.    Oh,  yes. 

ANGELE.    And  you  are  all  quite  well? 

DUPONT.  All  of  us.  I  had  a  touch  of  bronchitis  last 
year,  but  it  passed  off. 

ANGELE.     I  am  glad.     [A  silence]. 

DUPONT  [to  Angele,  who  is  gazing  at  him']  You  find 
me  looking  older,  eh? 

ANGELE.    On  the  contrary.     I  was  just  thinking  — 

DUPONT.    And  you?     You  are  well? 

ANGELE.  Quite,  thank  you.  [Another  silence.  Then 
Angele  rises  and  the  Duponts  rise  too], 

DUPONT.    You  can't  stay  any  longer? 

ANGELE.  No.  I'm  afraid  I  must —  [Another 
silence]. 

DUPONT.     You  came  straight  from  the  station? 

ANGELE.  No.  I  had  my  things  taken  to  the  Lion 
d'Or. 

DUPONT.    You  are  staying  at  the  Lion  d'Or  ? 

ANGELE.    Yes. 

DUPONT.  Just  so.  Well,  until  to-morrow.  Four 
o'clock  at  the  lawyer's.  His  house  is  just  opposite.  [He 
points  through  the  window]  You  can  see  his  door  from 
here.  You  can't  miss  it. 

ANGELE.  I  understand.  [A  pause]  Julie  —  she  is 
there?  [She  points  to  the  door]. 

DUPONT.  Tut,  tut,  what  am  I  thinking  of?  I  had 
forgotten.  Yes,  she  is  there.  They  will  take  you  to 
her.  [To  Madame  Dupont]  Go  and  see  if —  I  '11  tell 
someone  to  go  and  find  Caroline.  [He  rings]. 

MME.  DUPONT  [opening  a  door  and  calling  through  it] 
Julie:  your  sister  Angele  is  here. 

JULIE  [from  her  room]     Angele?    Ask  her  to  come  in. 

MME.  DUPONT.     You  can  go  in  to  her. 

Angele  goes.  Dupont  has  rung  and  says  a  few  words 
to  the  maid,  who  goes  out  at  once. 

DUPONT.    Ouf !     [To  Madame  Dupont]     Ah,  well,  it 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  153 

has  all  gone  off  excellently.  I  did  n't  say  a  word  of  what 
I  had  got  ready,  but  still  it  was  all  right.  Don't  you 
think  so? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Quite.    Poor  girl !   I  felt  sorry  for  her. 

DUPONT.  She  is  quite  happy.  She  was  very  well 
dressed;  quite  like  a  lady,  in  fact.  Who  would  think  to 
see  her —  Eh?  [Madame  Dupont  nods]  And  yet  — 
But  when  one  has  had  a  good  education  it  always  comes 
out.  It  is  curious.  I  thought  I  should  be  quite  upset 
when  I  saw  her.  Instead  of  which  —  Of  course  I  don't 
mean  that  I  did  n't  feel  it.  Still  it  was  n't  so  bad  as  I 
expected.  But  now  she  's  no  longer  there  I  feel  —  I  feel 
my  legs  giving  way  under  me !  .  [He  sits  down.  A  si- 
lence] If  I  were  not  so  sure  it  was  my  duty  to  do  as  I 
did  —  for  it  was  my  duty  ?  [Pause]  You  don't  answer. 
Was  n't  it  my  duty  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  don't  know. 

Caroline  comes  in. 

DUPONT.    Angele  — 

CAROLINE.     Yes.     Courthezon  told  me. 

DUPONT  [with  assumed  carelessness,  after  a  pause] 
You  understand,  Caroline,  no  reproaches.  Don't  make 
any  allusion  to  what  you  are  doing  for  her  sake. 

CAROLINE.     I  understand. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife]  Tell  her  that  Caroline  is  wait- 
ing for  her. 

The  maid  comes  in. 

MAID.  M.  and  Madame  Mairaut,  monsieur.  They 
wish  to  speak  to  you. 

DUPONT.    Good.    Where  are  they?    In  the  office? 

MAID.     Yes,  monsieur. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife]  I  know  what  they  want.  [To 
the  maid]  I  will  come  down  with  you.  [He  and  the 
maid  go  out], 

MME.  DUPONT  [speaking  at  the  door  of  Julie's  room] 
Caroline  is  here. 


154  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

Angele  comes  in  and  makes  a  quick  movement  towards 
Caroline,  but  pulls  herself  up  before  the  coldness  of  the 
other's  demeanor. 

ANGELE.     Caroline ! 

CAROLINE.  Angele!  [They  stand  looking  fixedly  at 
one  another  for  some  moments], 

ANGELE  [sadly]     How  changed  you  are! 

CAROLINE.    You  are  changed,  too. 

ANGELE.  That  is  because  life  has  not  always  gone 
smoothly  with  me.  [Caroline  makes  a  gesture  of  incre- 
dulity] You  don't  believe  me  ? 

CAROLINE.    Yes,  if  you  say  so. 

ANGELE.  I  have  just  seen  Julie.  She  was  kinder 
than  you  are.  And  she  was  only  five  when  I  left  home; 
and  she  is  only  my  half-sister.  You  and  I  have  the  same 
father  and  the  same  mother.  We  are  almost  of  an  age, 
and  we  used  to  love  one  another. 

CAROLINE  [coldly]     That  is  true. 

ANGELE.  If  you  knew  all  about  it  you  would  for- 
give me. 

CAROLINE.  Are  the  things  that  were  said  about  you 
untrue  ? 

ANGELE.     No.     However  bad  they  were  they  are  true. 

CAROLINE.    Since  that  is  so  — 

ANGELE  [without  anger]  Since  that  is  so,  I  still  think 
your  virtue  very  proud,  and  very  hard.  That  is  all.  [Chang- 
ing her  tone]  You  understand  what  has  brought  me  here? 

CAROLINE.  I  understand  that  we  are  to  meet  at  the 
lawyer's. 

ANGELE.     Very  well.     To-morrow  at  four. 

CAROLINE.     To-morrow  at  four  at  the  lawyer's. 

ANGELE  [turning  at  the  door,  greatly  moved]  You 
have  nothing  else  to  say  to  me? 

Caroline  shakes  her  head.  Angele  goes  out.  A  mo- 
ment after  Dupont  comes  in. 

DUPONT  [beaming]     She  has  gone? 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  155 

CAROLINE.    Yes. 

DUPONT  [chuckling]  Where  is  your  mother?  Where 
is  she?  [He  calls  Madame  Dupont]. 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  is  it? 

DUPONT.     I  want  you. 

CAROLINE.     I  will  go. 

DUPONT.    There  's  no  need. 

CAROLINE.    I  have  some  work  to  do. 

DUPONT.  Very  well.  Go,  my  child.  Go.  [Calling 
after  her]  To-morrow,  remember.  [She  goes  out  as  M. 
Dupont  rubs  his  hands,  chuckling]  Guess  what  M.  and 
Madame  Mairaut  came  to  ask  me.  You  can't  guess  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    No. 

DUPONT.  No  wonder.  They  came  to  ask  for  the 
twenty-five  thousand  francs;  the  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  of  Julie's  dot,  you  remember,  which  I  was  to  pay 
six  months  after  her  marriage. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Well? 

DUPONT.  Well.  It  is  six  months  to-day  since  Julie 
was  married. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Good  heavens!    What  did  you  do? 

DUPONT.    Gave  them  nothing,  of  course. 

MME.  DUPONT.     You  could  n't  do  otherwise. 
*  DUPONT.     As  you  say,  I  could  n't. 

MME.  DUPONT.    But  they  will  make  us  bankrupt. 

DUPONT  [still  smiling  broadly]  They  can't.  They 
have  nothing  but  my  word. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Luckily. 

DUPONT.  However,  I  have  n't  refused  the  twenty-five 
thousand  francs.  Nor  have  I  disputed  the  debt. 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  did  you  do  then? 

DUPONT.  I  wish  you  had  been  there.  You  would  have 
laughed. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Well? 

DUPONT.  I  think  I  managed  pretty  well,  though  I  say 
it  who  should  n't.  If  you  had  seen  the  long  faces  they 


156  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

pulled.  Especially  Mother  Mairaut.  [He  bursts  out 
laughing]  I  should  have  liked  a  photograph  of  them. 
It  would  have  cheered  me  in  moments  of  depression. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

MME.  DUPONT  [smiling]     Tell  me  about  it. 

DUPONT.  Well  —  I  'd  have  given  anything  for  a  pho- 
tograph. I  said  to  them  [solemnly]  :  "  Dear  monsieur 
and  dear  madame,  I  admit  that  I  promised  to  pay  you 
to-day  twenty-five  thousand  francs.  Only  I  am  not  in 
a  position  to  pay  them."  Explosion !  Rage !  Dignified 
reproaches !  Insults !  Smiling,  I  let  the  storm  pass 
by.  Mother  Mairaut  sat  there,  her  husband  here,  I  here. 
All  the  time  they  were  speaking  I  looked  at  them  like  this 
[grins].  As  soon  as  they  had  finished  I  took  up  the  tale 
again.  "  I  do  not  deny  the  debt,"  said  I,  "  only  I  ask  to 
be  allowed  to  postpone  the  payment.  And  this  time  I 
am  ready  to  sign  an  undertaking,  a  binding  undertaking, 
to  pay."  Complete  change  of  front !  Smiles.  Apolo- 
gies. Oh,  they  were  devilish  civil.  Called  me  a  man  of 
honor,  etc.,  etc.  I  let  them  run  on,  still  smiling.  Then, 
in  the  midst  of  an  almost  religious  silence,  I  sat  down  at 
my  desk,  I  took  pen  and  paper,  I  wrote,  I  blotted,  so, 
taking  my  time  about  it.  Madame  Mairaut  positively 
slobbered  with  delight.  I  tell  you  she  slobbered.  I 
handed  her  the  paper.  On  it  was  written  simply:  "  Good 
for  the  sum  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs  to  be  paid  out 
of  the  money  to  be  left  by  Uncle  Marechal."  Ha !  Ha ! 
Ha! 

MME.  DUPONT  [laughing]     Splendid  ! 

DUPONT.    Funny,  eh?    Deuced  funny ! 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

DUPONT.  You  don't  think  so?  You  don't?  Eh? 
Was  n't  it  funny  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes.    Yes. 

DUPONT.  When  Mother  Mairaut  took  it  in  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  have  a  fit.  "  It 's  an  insult !  "  she 


Act  III      Of  Monsieur  Duporit  157 

shrieked.  I  believe  she  actually  even  called  me  a  cad! 
As  for  me,  I  was  almost  dying  with  laughter.  They  went 
away  swearing  they  were  going  straight  to  the  bank  to 
tell  Antonin.  By  Jove!  I  haven't  enjoyed  myself  so 
much  for  ever  so  long. 

MME.  DUPONT  [becoming  serious  again']  I  hope  this 
won't  make  any  difference  to  Julie. 

DUPONT.    Bah ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  Things  are  not  going  very  well  with 
her,  I  'm  afraid.  Antonin  is  exacting  and  tyrannical, 
and  she  often  locks  herself  into  her  room  to  cry. 

DUPONT.  That  always  happens  in  the  early  days  of 
marriage.  People's  angles  need  rubbing  off.  That  sort 
of  marriage  turns  out  best  in  the  end.  [Julie  comes  in] 
Here  she  is.  Speak  to  her.  Tell  her  these  things  are  n't 
serious.  Make  her  understand  her  duty.  I  must  go  back 
to  my  accounts.  [To  Julie]  Well?  What  did  your 
sister  Angele  say  to  you? 

JULIE.  Hardly  anything.  She  did  n't  know  me,  and  I 
should  n't  have  known  her. 

DUPONT.  I  told  you  so.  Well,  I  must  be  off.  Back 
soon.  [He  goes  out]. 

MME.  DUPONT.  My  dear  —  your  husband  may  be 
rather  put  out  when  he  comes  in. 

JULIE.    I  am  getting  used  to  that. 

MME.  DUPONT.    More  so  than  usual,  I  mean. 

JULIE.    Why? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Your  father  has  been  unable  to  keep 
his  promise. 

JULIE.    About  the  twenty-five  thousand  francs? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Yes.  Antonin  will  have  just  heard 
about  it. 

JULIE  [depressed]  No  matter.  [Suddenly,  alarmed] 
I  do  believe  I  forgot  to  tell  them  to  get  out  his  grey  suit. 
No:  I  remember.  I  did  tell  them.  How  angry  he  would 
have  been  if  I  had  n't ! 


158  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

MME.  DUPONT,    Of  course.    He  is  your  husband. 

JULIE.  You  think  it  quite  natural  that  he  should  fly 
into  a  rage  as  he  did  two  days  ago  because  something  or 
other  had  been  forgotten  ?  And  that  it  is  only  reasonable 
he  should  order  me  to  go  to  Mass  merely  that  Madame 
So-and-So  may  see  me  there?  Well,  he  may  order  as 
much  as  he  likes,  I  shall  not  go.  I  will  not  go ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  make  too  much  of  it.  My  child, 
are  n't  you  happy  ? 

JULIE  [ironically]     Of  course. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Your  husband  is  fond  of  you,  is  n't 
he? 

JULIE.    That  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  fond. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  mean  he  's  very  much  in  love  with 
you. 

JULIE.    I  suppose  so. 

MME.  DUPONT.     You're  angry  with  him  for  that? 

JULIE.       No,  I  'm  angry  with  myself. 

MME.  DUPONT.    My  dear!    What  do  you  mean? 

JULIE.    I  am  ashamed  of  myself. 

MME.  DUPONT.    I  don't  understand. 

JULIE.    Nor  do  I.    Don't  let  us  talk  about  it. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Please,  dear ! 

JULIE  [breaking  out]     Well,  I  detest  him.     There! 

MME.  DUPONT.     Tell  me  why. 

JULIE.  There  is  no  why  in  that  sort  of  dislike.  It  is 
born  and  grows  with  every  moment  we  are  together. 
Every  moment  there  comes  some  little  point  on  which  we 
clash.  We  haven't  the  same  ideas  on  a  single  subject. 
He  and  I  are  strangers.  We  are  apart  utterly,  miserably. 
We  are  as  far  from  one  another  as  two  human  beings  can 
be.  [With  a  deep  sigh]  Oh,  to  realize  that  slowly, 
hopelessly.  To  feel  that  every  fresh  glimpse  into  each 
other's  character  only  reveals  a  fresh  source  of  offence. 
Till  at  last  it  has  come  to  this,  that  I  am  certain  the 
more  we  know  each  other  the  deeper  will  be  our  mutual 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  159 

loathing.  Every  day,  every  hour  will  add  a  fresh  hatred 
to  the  accumulated  hatreds  of  the  others.  Great 
heavens !  And  unless  we  are  divorced  this  will  go  on 
all  our  lives.  [A  pause]  Why,  there  are  moments  when 
he  is  sitting  there  in  that  chair,  and  I  look  at  him  fixedly, 
and  it  seems  as  if  I  had  never  seen  him  before.  And  why 
not?  After  all,  it  is  only  six  months  since  I  hardly  rec- 
ognized him  when  we  passed  in  the  street.  And  then 
I  ask  myself  what  am  I  doing  here?  I,  in  my  dressing- 
gown,  with  my  hair  down,  shut  in  with  that  man.  And 
I  long  to  run  away  screaming.  And  we  are  husband  and 
wife.  Oh,  mother,  I  am  ashamed. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  must  try  to  be  reasonable.  An- 
tonin  is  a  fine  fellow.  Many  girls  would  have  been  glad 
to  get  him. 

JULIE.  Why  didn't  they  then,  in  Heaven's  name? 
Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I  long  to  have  a  child  to  console  me 
for  all  this !  If  I  should  never  have  one !  If  I  should 
never  have  one !  [Shudders]  But  I  must  n't  even  think 
of  that. 

MME.  DUPONT.  My  dear  child,  you  must  look  at 
things  more  calmly.  All  this  will  gradually  settle  down 
until  at  last  it  passes  away  altogether. 

JULIE.     Yes.    When  I  am  an  old  woman. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Exactly;  when  you  are  an  old  woman. 

JULIE.    Thank  you. 

MME.  DUPONT.  In  any  case,  you  should  try  to  control 
yourself  a  little.  If  only  for  your  father's  sake  and  mine. 

JULIE.  I  will  try.  [Antonin  comes  in]  Hush!  Here 
he  is.  Go  away,  mother.  You  will  only  make  things 
worse.  [Madame  Dupont  goes  out], 

ANTONIN  [furious]  Well!  This  is  the  last  straw! 
Your  father  won't  keep  his  word.  You  have  heard? 

JULIE  [sitting  on  the  sofa]     Yes. 

ANTONIN.     It  does  n't  disturb  you  apparently. 

JULIE.     He  cannot  do  otherwise. 


160  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

ANTONIN.  It  will  be  the  ruin  of  me.  But  you  seem  to 
be  all  in  league  together,  the  whole  lot  of  you.  Oh, 
you  're  a  pretty  family !  Your  father  owes  us  twenty- 
five  thousand  francs.  He  won't  pay  them.  The  other 
day  your  sister  promised  us  fifteen  thousand  francs. 
To-day  she  has  changed  her  mind.  As  for  you,  you  do 
everything  in  your  power  to  compromise  my  position. 

JULIE.    I? 

ANTONIN.     You!     You  disobey  me! 

JULIE.     In  what? 

ANTONIN.    Were  you  at  Mass  this  morning? 

JULIE.    No. 

ANTONIN.    Why  not? 

JULIE.     It  is  not  my  fault  if  I  no  longer  believe. 

ANTONIN.  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe.  I  ask  you  to  go 
to  Mass.  The  two  things  are  totally  different.  A  woman 
ought  to  go  to  Mass.  If  she  does  n't  believe  she  should 
appear  to  do  so.  It  is  usual  among  people  of  good  posi- 
tion. I  wish  you  to  do  as  others  do.  Do  you  under- 
stand? I  wish  it.  I  have  no  desire  to  pass  for  a  Free- 
thinker when  all  my  clients  are  Catholics,  confound  them ! 

JULIE.     I  have  not  been  and  I  do  not  intend  to  go. 

ANTONIN.    What  do  you  say? 

JULIE.  You  heard  what  I  said.  If  you  were  a  be- 
liever, if  you  asked  me  to  do  this  out  of  respect  for  your 
faith,  I  would  do  it.  But  it  is  a  piece  of  commercial 
trickery  that  you  want  from  me.  I  refuse. 

ANTONIN.     You  wish  to  do  as  you  like,  you  mean? 

JULIE  [breaking  out~\  Yes.  You  are  quite  right.  I 
wish  to  do  as  I  like.  That  is  it.  That  is  just  it.  For 
once  in  my  life  I  wish  to  do  as  I  like !  All  the  time  I  was 
a  girl  I  had  to  obey;  to  submit  to  authority  that  was 
often  unreasonable.  Now  I  am  to  go  on  obeying,  obey- 
ing. I  have  had  enough  of  this  everlasting  obedience. 

ANTONIN.    Then  you  should  n't  have  married. 

JULIE.    So  that 's  it,  is  it  ?    The  sole  business  of  your 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  161 

wife's  life  is  to  be  your  slave,  to  help  the  servant  to  make 
you  comfortable,  brush  your  clothes,  taste  your  soup,  and 
look  up  to  you  with  admiring  homage. 

ANTONIN.    That 's  all  nonsense. 

JULIE.    What  is  nonsense? 

ANTONIN.  What  you  have  been  saying.  You  know 
quite  well  that  you  have  other  duties.  You  know  quite 
well  that  it  only  rests  with  you  to  be  a  happy  wife.  You 
know  that  I  love  you. 

JULIE.  Yes,  yes.  I  forgot.  You  love  me!  Which 
means  that  I  am  to  submit  to  €  your  caresses  when  the 
fancy  takes  you.  They  used  to  say  of  us  women,  "  house- 
keeper or  mistress."  But  we  have  moved  with  the  times. 
Now  you  want  the  same  woman  to  play  both  parts. 
Housekeeper  and  mistress.  That  is  the  only  difference 
between  us  and  the  women  you  love  before  you  marry  us. 
A  wife  is  a  mistress  who  minds  the  house.  That  is  not 
enough  for  me,  thank  you.  No !  No !  No !  I  will  not 
pass  my  whole  life  between  cooking  your  dinner  and 
accepting  your  kisses. 

ANTONIN.  That 's  right.  Off  we  go  on  the  old  story 
of  the  wife  who  is  not  understood;  the  poor  woman  who 
is  a  slave  and  a  martyr.  If  you  really  love  me,  if  you 
thought  a  little  more  instead  of  cramming  your  head  with 
ideas  which  you  don't  understand,  you  would  be  content 
with  the  part,  modest  no  doubt  but  not  dishonorable,  with 
which  plenty  of  women  as  good  as  you  have  contented 
themselves. 

JULIE.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  If  I  loved  you,  as  you 
say,  if  we  loved  one  another  nothing  would  matter.  But 
I  say  again  I  do  not  love  you. 

ANTONIN.     Be  silent. 

JULIE.    I  do  not  love  you. 

ANTONIN.  Julie,  I  shall  end  by  losing  my  temper. 
You  will  force  me  to  say  things. 

JULIE.    To  say  things  ? 


162  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

ANTONIN.    Never  mind. 

JULIE.  Oh,  you  may  speak  out.  A  little  shame  more 
or  less  does  n't  matter.  We  are  alone.  Let  us  speak  out 
and  clear  up  the  matter  once  and  for  all.  We  must.  It 
has  been  weighing  on  my  mind  for  a  long  time.  Say 
what  you  have  to  say. 

ANTONIN.     No. 

JULIE.  Then  7  will  speak.  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
love  you,  and  you  shrug  your  shoulders  with  a  smile  of 
self-complacency.  But  it 's  no  laughing  matter,  Heaven 
knows ;  and  I  don't  imagine  I  am  the  only  woman  for 
whom  this  subject,  amusing  enough  for  you  men,  has 
meant  a  whole  tragedy  of  sorrow  and  disgust. 

ANTONIN.     I  don't  understand  you. 

JULIE.  Yes,  you  do!  Your  vanity  makes  you  try  to 
escape,  but  you  shall  understand.  You  think  I  dare  n't 
speak,  but  I  will.  Do  you  suppose  I  will  stay  dumb  and 
bear  the  kisses  you  give  me,  kisses  which  I  end  by  re- 
turning. My  lips  when  you  kiss  them  draw  back  in  re- 
pulsion and  yet  in  the  end  they  yield  and  go  out  to  meet 
yours.  Shall  I  go  on?  [A  pause.  She  looks  him  full  in 
the  face]  No!  You  understand  now.  You  can  never 
again  imagine  the  tears  I  shed  are  tears  of  love.  They 
are  tears  of  remorse  and  misery.  I  hate  you  after  your 
kisses.  Our  love  is  a  duel  in  which  I  am  worsted  because 
what  is  best  in  me  turns  traitor.  I  blush  at  your  vic- 
tories because  you  could  never  have  gained  them  without 
the  help  of  what  is  base  in  me,  without  the  baseness  you 
know  how  to  excite.  It  is  not  I  who  yield.  It  is  the 
animal  in  me.  It  is  all  that  is  vile.  I  hate  you  for  the 
crime  of  our  loveless  marriage,  the  crime  you  force  me  to 
share.  I  admit  you  are  not  the  only  guilty  one,  you  are 
not  the  only  one  worthy  of  contempt.  But  I  have  had 
enough  of  it.  Enough  of  it.  I  will  no  longer  spend  my 
days  weeping  over  the  shame  of  my  nights.  Every  even- 
ing I  have  said  I  will  regain  my  freedom.  Till  now  I 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  163 

have  not  dared  to  say  the  words  that  would  release  me. 
Now  I  have  done  it.  I  am  free. 

ANTONIN  [shrugging  his  shoulders]  You  are  nothing 
of  the  sort. 

JULIE.    What  do  you  mean? 

ANTONIN.  I  mean  that  I  have  more  common  sense 
than  you.  I  mean  that  it  is  my  duty  to  guard  you  from 
these  exaggerated  fancies  of  yours.  The  bonds  that 
join  us  are  not  to  be  broken  by  a  whim.  You  are  my 
wife  and  my  wife  you  will  remain.  A  divorce  is  im- 
possible. I  have  given  you  no  cause.  You  may  leave 
me,  of  course,  but  you  know  the  life  of  the  woman  who 
lives  apart  from  her  husband,  a  life  without  respect  and 
without  social  position.  No:  you  will  stay  with  me. 

JULIE.  And  it  is  this  prison  that  we  call  marriage. 
[A  pause]  And  when  I  think  that  I  looked  forward 
with  longing  to  this:  that  I  sighed  for  it:  that  all  my 
girlhood  I  was  hoping  for  it,  dreaming  of  it.  When  I 
think  that  at  this  very  moment  there  are  girls  kneeling 
by  their  bedsides,  young  girls  whose  hearts  are  yearning 
for  this.  [She  begins  to  cry]  Ah,  poor  girls !  Poor 
girls  !  If  they  only  knew !  [She  wipes  her  eyes,  after  a 
moment]  Just  Heaven,  what  a  fool  I  am !  Here  am  I, 
crying  when  I  should  be  laughing.  The  thing  is  ludi- 
crous. Why,  if  one  dared,  one  would  shake  with  laughter 
at  it  all.  You  may  be  tyrants,  all  of  you,  but  you  are 
so  absurd  that,  when  one  thinks,  one  can  scarcely  hate 
you  for  it.  What  you  have  made  of  marriage!  From 
start  to  finish:  from  the  wedding  morning,  with  its 
monkey  tricks,  its  vanity,  and  its  folly.  When  I  think 
that  there  are  still  people  who  respect  such  mummery! 
[She  bursts  out  laughing], 

ANTONIN.     Julie!     Don't  laugh  like  that! 

JULIE.  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  leave  me  alone.  It 's  well 
for  you  I  take  it  laughing.  If  I  took  it  seriously,  what 
sort  of  figure  would  you  cut?  Everything  about  a  wed- 


164  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

ding  is  absurd,  just  because  it  is  so  detestable.  Yes; 
everything.  From  the  moment  when  you  set  it  before 
us  as  a  duty  to  hand  ourselves  over  to  our  lords  on  such 
and  such  a  day,  at  such  and  such  an  hour,  at  a  date  and 
a  minute  fixed  beforehand.  How  is  it  that  brides  do  not 
die  of  shame  under  the  curious  eyes  of  the  wedding 
guests  and  the  thoughts  they  hide?  To  think  that  they 
are  passing  the  day  among  people  who  know.  Pah !  Oh, 
yes;  I  am  quite  aware  how  ridiculous  the  bride  looks. 
[She  puts  her  hand  familiarly  on  his  shoulder]  But 
don't  imagine  the  bridegroom  cuts  a  very  brilliant  figure. 
[She  laughs]  You  all  wear  a  look  of  stupid  compla- 
cency, like  a  contented  animal  sure  of  its  prey.  And 
there  must  be  a  dot,  and  you  must  be  bought,  and  a  price 
must  be  paid  you  in  order  that  you  may  marry  us.  Oh, 
yes.  You  have  arranged  things  finely  among  you,  with 
your  Deputies'  scarves  and  your  music  and  incense. 
And  you  need  them.  But  do  you  think  they  impose  on 
anyone  nowadays?  No. 

ANTONIN.  You  make  out  too  good  a  case  for  yourself. 
And  it 's  not  fair  to  make  me  responsible.  All  this  is  as 
much  the  result  of  your  acts  as  of  mine. 

JULIE.  Indeed!  I  am  curious  to  hear  what  those 
acts  are. 

ANTONIN.     I  '11  tell  you. 

JULIE.  Have  I  ever  failed  in  my  duty?  Haven't  I 
been  — 

ANTONIN  [sternly]  Be  silent.  I  'm  going  to  have 
my  say.  It 's  no  good  your  trying  to  play  the  injured 
victim.  You  did  exactly  the  same  as  I  did.  When  I  pro- 
posed for  you,  I  was  not  in  love  with  you,  I  admit  it. 
I  did  n't  love  you  as  you  want  to  be  loved.  Yet  you 
accepted  me. 

JULIE.  Do  you  suppose  I  knew?  What  did  I  under- 
stand about  life  ?  How  could  I  have  guessed  — 

ANTONIN.     You  knew  perfectly  well  the  sort  of  love 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  165 

I  felt  for  you,  —  a  sort  of  love  every  mother  tries  to 
rouse  in  any  young  man  she  wants  to  catch  for  her 
daughter.  And  the  daughters  take  a  hand  in  the  game, 
too,  bless  their  little  hearts ! 

JULIE.    Do  you  mean  to  say  7  did  such  a  thing? 

ANTONIN.  Yes,  I  do.  You  began  this  plain  speak- 
ing ;  I  'm  going  on  with  it.  You  wanted  the  cards  on  the 
table  and  you  shall  have  them.  Let  us  both  own  up. 
We  know  now  what  marriage  is,  our  own  and  every- 
body else's.  We  know  all  the  tricks,  all  the  humbug  of 
it.  Let 's  look  it  in  the  face.  .Your  parents  deceived 
mine. 

JULIE.    And  yours? 

ANTONIN.  They  did  the  same.  I  'm  not  denying  it. 
But  did  you  help  them?  Yes  or  no? 

JULIE.    No. 

ANTONIN.  Yes,  you  did.  I  remember  well  enough 
how  you  helped  them  to  cajole  me,  trap  me,  dupe  me. 
Oh,  I  know  it  sounds  ridiculous.  I  know  each  petty  in- 
cident taken  by  itself  amounts  to  nothing.  But  these 
deceptions  of  yours  have  their  importance,  for  you  only 
made  use  of  them  to  catch  me.  You  played  on  my  weak- 
nesses. You  knew  I  was  fond  of  money  —  we  're  talking 
straight  to  each  other,  remember  —  you  knew  I  was 
fond  of  money  and  you  represented  yourself  as  a  model 
young  woman  who  always  made  her  own  dresses.  You 
remember  that?  And  Wagner!  Wagner,  whose  music 
you  professed  to  admire  so  much,  when  you  knew  as  little 
about  him  as  I  do.  According  to  your  own  account  lots 
of  men  had  wanted  to  marry  you.  That  was  a  lie.  You 
had  helped  your  father  in  keeping  his  books  and  were 
interested  in  my  banking  business.  That  was  a  lie,  too. 

JULIE.    If  that  is  all  you  have  to  reproach  me  with  — 

ANTONIN.  It  is  not  all.  There  was  another  lie  to 
which  you  condescended.  And  that  was  a  serious  one, 
because  you  sacrificed  your  womanly  dignity  to  your  in- 


166  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

terest.  You  have  forgotten  it?  I  have  not.  Why  it 
was  here,  here  in  this  very  room  where  we  are  at  this 
moment,  that  you  sat  dressed  for  a  ball.  You  were  not 
going  to  a  ball.  I  knew  that  later.  But  they  told  you 
to  put  on  that  dress,  and  you  know  why.  Well,  that  trick 
came  off  all  right.  [Julie,  confused,  hides  her  face  in 
her  hands]  I  behaved  as  most  men  behave.  I  wanted 
to  take  your  arm  and  kiss  it.  You  objected  as  any  decent 
woman  would.  But  when  you  saw  I  was  annoyed  you 
said  to  yourself  that  a  husband  was  well  worth  the  sacri- 
fice of  a  little  modesty,  and  you  came  deliberately  and  let 
me  kiss  you  as  I  wished.  Isn't  it  true?  Isn't  it?  I 
tried  to  deceive  you,  I  admit  it.  But  if  I  lied  you  lied, 
too.  Marriages  like  ours  may  be  shameful.  I  don't 
know.  But  don't  try  to  thrust  the  whole  responsibility 
on  me  when  you  're  equally  guilty.  [Julie's  head  sinks 
lower.  A  pause]  The  other  things  you  say  about  me 
I  dare  say  I  deserve.  I  'm  ambitious.  I  want  to  suc- 
ceed. Is  it  my  fault  that  success  is  the  only  road  to 
social  consideration  nowadays?  In  order  to  succeed 
I  must  truckle  to  people  who  can  be  useful  to  me  and  I 
ask  you  to  help  me.  I  'm  not  a  hero.  I  'm  like  the  rest 
of  the  world.  I  did  n't  make  either  myself  or  them.  We 
are  to  be  pitied,  both  of  us.  But  I  'm  more  to  be  pitied 
than  you  are,  for  you  don't  love  me  and  I  can't  help  lov- 
ing you.  What  shall  I  do  if  you  leave  me?  My  posi- 
tion will  be  compromised,  my  business  ruined.  And  more 
than  all  that  I  shall  have  lost  you.  I  don't  speak  as  I 
ought ;  I  am  a  fool,  a  dolt.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  this 
at  first  instead  of  going  over  all  that  wretched  business. 
But  it 's  true,  it 's  far  worse  for  me  than  for  you  [much 
moved],  for  I  love  you  in  spite  of  all  you  can  say,  and 
the  idea  of  losing  you  is  like  being  told  that  I  am  going 
to  die.  [He  sobs]  And  what  have  I  done  after  all? 
I  've  only  done  as  other  men  do.  Why  should  /  be  the 
only  one  to  be  punished?  Ah,  Julie,  my  little  Julie,  pity 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  167 

me.  I  'm  very  unhappy.  [He  weeps,  bowed  over  the 
table,  his  head  in  his  hands]. 

JULIE  [putting  her  hand  upon  his  head  and  speaking 
in  a  low  expressionless  voice]  Poor  fellow ! 

ANTONIN  [still  weeping]  You  are  sorry  for  me,  are  n't 
you?  Say  you  are. 

JULIE.    Yes,  we  are  both  of  us  victims. 

ANTONIN.  That 's  it.  Ever  since  I  was  born  my  par- 
ents have  taught  me  that  the  great  thing  in  life  was  to 
be  rich. 

JULIE  [nodding  sadly]     Mine  too. 

ANTONIN.  Unless  one  gets  on  nobody  thinks  anything 
of  one. 

JULIE.    And  marriage  is  one  of  the  ways  of  getting  on. 

ANTONIN.    That 's  what  ruined  us. 

JULIE.  Yes.  It  has  ruined  our  lives  as  it  has  ruined 
so  many  others. 

ANTONIN  [recovering  his  composure]  You  under- 
stand, then?  You  do  understand,  don't  you? 

JULIE  [dully]     Yes. 

ANTONIN  [taking  her  hand,  which  she  does  not  draw 
away]  You're  not  angry?  [Julie  says  nothing]  It  is 
all  over,  is  n't  it  ?  [patting  her  hand]  All  quite  over  and 
done  with.  [She  is  still  silent]  You  see  that  I  mustn't 
do  anything  that  might  damage  the  business?  You  see 
that? 

JULIE.    Yes. 

ANTONIN.  And  that  it's  better  not  to  offend  people 
who  may  be  useful  to  us.  Is  n't  it  ? 

JULIE.    Yes. 

ANTONIN.  After  all,  why  should  n't  one  go  to  Mass  ? 
Come,  come.  [Pie  smiles]  We  have  been  silly,  have  n't 
we,  to  say  all  that?  It's  forgotten  now,  isn't  it?  Say 
it 's  forgotten ! 

JULIE  [relucantly]     Yes. 

ANTONIN  [recovering  his  spirits]     That 's  a  good  little 


168  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

woman.  There,  there.  One  disputes,  one  flies  into  a 
passion,  one  runs  on  and  on,  one  says  terrible  things 
[laughing].  What  things  you  said  to  me.  Oh,  it  was 
shocking.  But  there,  we  '11  never  speak  of  it  again. 
Never.  Never.  Let 's  make  it  up.  [He  takes  her  in  his 
arms:  hesitating,  she  lets  him  do  so]  We're  friends 
again,  eh?  And  now  go  and  wash  your  face,  or  people 
will  see  you  've  been  crying.  Are  my  eyes  red,  too  ?  No, 
I  expect  not.  Shall  I  tell  you  something?  You  won't 
believe  it.  You  '11  be  shocked.  Do  you  know,  I  almost 
think  perhaps  it 's  as  well  we  've  said  all  these  things  to 
each  other.  You  see,  now  we  know  each  other  better. 
You  understand  about  some  of  my  worries.  The  business 
is  n't  going  as  I  should  wish.  That  makes  my  temper 
rather  quick  at  times.  No;  things  might  be  better.  If 
you  would  say  a  word  to  Caroline,  perhaps  she  would 
change  her  mind  about  that  money. 

JULIE  [still  on  her  guard]     I  will  try. 

ANTONIN.  That 's  a  good  girl.  And  it 's  only  for  a 
little  while  that  we  shall  have  to  be  careful.  We  are 
only  two  and  we  shall  pull  through  it.  Luckily,  we  've 
only  ourselves  to  think  of.  Imagine  what  it  would  be 
if  we  were  expecting  a  baby ! 

JULIE.     That  would  give  me  courage. 

ANTONIN.  Nonsense,  my  dear.  We  can  do  very  well 
without  that. 

JULIE  [alarmed]  But  we  are  going  to  have  children, 
are  n't  we  ? 

ANTONIN  [after  a  moment's  hesitation,  firmly]     No. 

JULIE.    Why  not? 

ANTONIN.  How  absurd  you  are.  Because  I  don't 
choose,  of  course. 

JULIE.  But  we  've  often  talked  of  having  children. 
You  've  made  plans  with  me  about  what  we  should  do 
with  them. 

ANTONIN   [laughing]     I  know.     You  liked  it,  and  it 


Act  III       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  169 

was  something  to  talk  about.  But  for  the  future  we  're 
to  be  perfectly  straight  with  one  another. 

JULIE.  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  never  to  have  any 
children  ? 

ANTONIN  [nods']  We  can't  afford  them,  my  dear,  at 
present.  And  if  we  wait  till  we  're  forty  [shrugs], 
people  would  laugh. 

JULIE.  Don't  you  know  what  it  was  that  made  me 
willing  to  marry?  Don't  you  .know  that  it  was  this 
thought  of  having  children,  this  and  this  alone,  that  de- 
cided me?  And  you  refuse  me  this?  To  be  a  wife,  to  be 
a  mother,  is  the  natural  end  of  life  for  me.  And  some- 
thing will  be  wanting  and  my  life  will  be  incomplete,  and 
I  shall  not  have  lived  if  my  arms  have  never  clasped  a 
baby  born  of  my  flesh;  if  I  have  never  suckled  it,  cried 
over  it,  felt  all  the  cares  and  all  the  joys  that  mothers 
feel.  And  you  would  rob  me  of  this?  Merely  because 
you  love  money,  because  you  are  self-seeking  and  ambi- 
tious. Great  Heavens,  to  think  that  you  should  have 
such  power  over  my  life!  People  talk  of  tyranny;  they 
make  revolts  against  Governments;  there  are  women 
who  clamor  for  a  vote;  who  demand  that  the  marriage 
law  should  be  the  same  for  women  as  for  men;  and  they 
don't  understand  that  it  is  marriage  itself  they  should 
attack,  that  they  should  attack  with  fury,  since  it  allows 
such  an  infamy. 

ANTONIN.  For  goodness'  sake  don't  begin  again.  Re- 
member, we  made  it  up. 

JULIE.  Made  it  up!  Just  God!  what  name  is  there 
vile  enough  for  me  to  fling  in  your  face?  Are  you  so 
utterly  base  that  you  think  now  there  can  ue  any  thought 
of  reconciliation  between  us?  After  what  you  have  just 
told  me,  do  you  suppose  that  I  would  submit  to  —  Think 
what  it  means.  Think  what  the  thing  you  men  call  love 
means  to  women  if  it  has  neither  affection  nor  children 
for  its  justification. 


170  The  Three  Daughters      Act  III 

ANTONIN.  I  won't  answer  you.  You  don't  know  what 
you  're  saying.  You  're  mad,  and  I  shall  treat  you  ac- 
cordingly. To  begin  with,  go  to  your  room  and  try  to 
calm  yourself.  Go!  [He  tries  to  take  her  by  the  arm]. 

JULIE  [shrieking]  Don't  touch  me !  Don't  touch  me  ! 
[She  pushes  him  violently  away~\. 

ANTONIN  [furious]  Look  here,  Julie;  I  'm  not  going 
to  stand  this.  I  tell  you  to  go  to  your  room  at  once. 

JULIE.    Don't  touch  me ! 

ANTONIN.  I  shall  touch  you  if  I  please.  Oh,  you  may 
scream  if  you  like.  You  're  my  wife,  and  I  've  the  right 
to  do  as  I  choose  with  you. 

JULIE.  Take  your  hands  off  me!  I  hate  you,  I  say! 
I  hate  you! 

ANTONIN.  You  hate  me?  I  dare  say.  But  if  you  sup- 
pose that  I  'm  a  genteel  husband  out  of  a  book,  who  lets 
his  wife  lock  her  door  against  him,  you  're  vastly  mis- 
taken. I  've  married  you,  I  love  you,  and  I  intend  to 
keep  you.  Hate  me,  do  you?  Very  well.  Escape  from 
me  if  you  can.  [He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  There  is  a 
struggle.  Furniture  is  overturned.  No  word  is  spoken, 
but  you  can  hear  their  deep  breathing.  Suddenly  An- 
tonin  cries  out]  Curse  you,  you  've  bitten  me ! 

JULIE.  Yes.  And  I  will  kill  you  if  you  don't  let  me 
go! 

ANTONIN  [transported  with  rage]  We  shall  see  which 
of  us  is  master. 

JULIE.    We  shall  see ! 

ANTONIN.  We  shall!  [Antonin  goes  out  in  a  violent 
passion]. 

Julie,  left  alone,  straightens  her  hair  and  dress  me- 
chanically, muttering  to  herself  inaudibly.  Suddenly  she 
falls  upon  a  couch,  and  then  upon  the  ground,  where  she 
lies  sobbing  in  an  agony  of  misery. 


ACT    IV 

The  same  scene.  M.  and  Madame  Dupont  are  sitting 
together. 

DUPONT.     She's  determined  to  leave  him,  then? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Quite  determined. 

DUPONT.     And  he? 

MME.  DUPONT.  After  the  scene  I  told  you  of  he  went 
straight  out  of  the  house  and  he  has  n't  come  back  since. 

DUPONT.    He  did  n't  sleep  at  home  last  night? 

MME.  DUPONT.    No. 

DUPONT  [scornfully]  He  has  gone  back  to  "  maman," 
no  doubt.  [He  goes  to  the  window]. 

MME.  DUPONT  [after  a  pause]  Why  do  you  keep 
looking  out  of  that  window? 

DUPONT.  I  'm  watching  the  lawyer's  opposite.  Caro- 
line went  in  five  minutes  ago.  I  'm  terribly  afraid  An- 
gele  won't  come.  [To  himself]  Confound  Caroline! 
Who  the  Dickens  can  have  got  hold  of  that  other  fifteen 
thousand  francs?  [Joyfully]  There's  Angele.  Look! 
She  's  going  in  now.  What  did  you  say  ?  Bless  my  soul, 
my  daughters  give  me  worry  enough.  Yes;  he  has  gone 
back  to  "  maman."  And  you  think  this  won't  blow  over, 
eh? 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  'm  certain  it  won't.  Julie  will  never 
forgive  him. 

DUPONT  [almost  with  triumph]  That  means  a 
divorce  then,  eh? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes.    A  divorce. 
171 


172  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

DUPONT.  Ah !  And  who  was  the  clever  one  this  time, 
too,  eh?  Who  was  it? 

MME.  DUPONT.    I  don't  know. 

DUPONT.    Of  course  not.    Well,  /  was. 

MME.  DUPONT.     In  what  way? 

DUPONT.    You  say  she  '11  ask  for  a  divorce  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Unless  he  does. 

DUPONT.  Very  well,  then.  Whichever  way  it  is  her 
money  was  settled  on  herself,  and  our  good  Antonin  will 
have  to  give  back  the  thirty  thousand  francs  and  my 
house.  Thanks  to  me.  Thanks  to  me.  [He  rubs  his 
hands]. 

The  maid  comes  in. 

MAID.    M.  and  Madame  Mairaut. 

DUPONT.  Show  them  in.  [The  maid  goes  out.  To  his 
wife]  Don't  go. 

M.  and  Madame  Mairaut  come  in. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [turning  to  the  door  and  speaking  to 
her  husband,  who  hangs  back]  Are  you  coming  in  or  are 
you  not? 

MAIRAUT.    I  'm  coming.     [He  closes  the  door]. 
Formal  greetings  are  exchanged. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [sitting  down]  After  what  passed  be- 
tween us  yesterday  — 

DUPONT  [with  dangerous  sweetness]  About  Uncle 
Marechal's  money? 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [appearing  not  to  have  heard]  After 
what  passed  between  us  yesterday,  I  intended  never  to 
set  foot  in  this  house  again. 

DUPONT  [bowing]  It  rested  entirely  with  you, 
madame. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Since  then,  however,  grave  differ- 
ences have  arisen  between  our  children. 

DUPONT.    Very  grave. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    You  know,  then? 

DUPONT.    Yes. 


Act  IV       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  173 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  We  are  come  therefore,  my  husband 
and  I,  in  the  name  of  our  son,  formally  to  request  your 
daughter,  Madame  Antonin  Mairaut,  to  return  to  her 
husband's  roof. 

DUPONT.    His  roof? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  To  St.  Laurent.  My  son  awaits  her 
there. 

DUPONT.  He  '11  have  to  wait  some  time.  My  daugh- 
ter will  not  return  to  her  husband.  You  are  welcome  to 
bring  an  officer  of  the  Court  to  bear  witness  to  the  fact. 
It  will  provide  your  son  with  a  ground  for  his  divorce. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [sweetly]  There  is  no  question  of  a 
divorce. 

DUPONT  [astonished]  What?  No  question  of  a 
divorce  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     None,  monsieur. 

DUPONT.     In  spite  of  my  daughter's  refusal  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     In  spite  of  her  refusal. 

DUPONT.  In  spite  of  what  she  has  said  to  her 
husband  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     In  spite  of  that,  too. 

DUPONT.  In  spite  of  anything  she  may  do  in  the 
future  ? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  In  spite  of  anything  she  may  do. 
There  is  no  question  of  a  divorce  and  there  never  will  be. 

DUPONT.    On  your  part,  you  mean? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  On  yours  also.  We  shall  give  you  no 
grounds.  My  son  is  waiting  for  his  wife  to  return  to 
him.  He  is  ready  to  receive  her  whenever  she  sees  fit  to 
present  herself. 

DUPONT.    Whatever  she  does? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Whatever  she  does. 

DUPONT.    Even  if  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Even  in  that  case.  [Movement  of 
Mairauf].  What  is  it,  my  dear? 

MAIRAUT.     Nothing. 


174  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

DUPONT.  The  truth  is  you  would  rather  risk  your 
son's  honor  than  give  back  the  thirty  thousand  francs. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [still  very  sweetly]  After  all,  thirty 
thousand  francs  is  a  considerable  sum.  [Mairaut  fidgets 
uneasily], 

DUPONT.  Yesterday,  when  he  went  away,  your  son 
uttered  certain  threats. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [still  sweetly]  He  has  decided  not  to 
put  them  into  execution. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  know,  of  course,  that  Julie  will 
never  agree  — 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     I  can't  help  that. 

MME.  DUPONT.  All  their  lives  they  will  be  chained  to 
one  another.  Young  as  they  are,  they  must  give  up  the 
idea  of  having  a  home. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Your  daughter  has  only  to  return  to 
her  duty.  Antonin  will  receive  her. 

MAIRAUT  [breaking  out]  No!  I  won't  have  it!  I 
have  a  word  to  say  on  this. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  What's  the  matter  now?  Pray 
speak  if  you  have  anything  to  say. 

MAIRAUT  [loudly]     What  we  are  doing  is  an  infamy. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    Hold  your  tongue ! 

MAIRAUT.     I  won't. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     Hold  your  tongue,  I  tell  you! 

MAIRAUT.  No !  And  don't  you  try  to  shut  me  down. 
Do  you  hear? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  What 's  taken  the  man?  I  've  never 
seen  him  like  this  before. 

MAIRAUT.  I  tell  you  this  is  infamous !  Infamous ! 
I  've  thought  so  for  a  long  time,  ever  since  the  day  you 
would  n't  let  me  speak  out  about  Uncle  Marechal.  I  said 
nothing  because  I  was  afraid  of  you.  For  thirty  years 
I  have  said  nothing.  But  now  this  is  too  much,  and  I 
say  what  I  think.  It 's  an  infamy !  Come  what  may,  I 
say  it.  Sit  down !  I  tell  you  it 's  an  infamy ! 


Act  IV        Of  Monsieur  Dupont  175 

Rogues  have  been  meddling  with  these  children's  lives 
too  long ;  it 's  time  for  honest  men  to  take  a  hand  in 
them.  I  'm  going  to  do  it. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  Pay  no  attention  to  him.  He  's  out 
of  his  senses. 

MAIRAUT.  Be  silent,  you!  M.  and  Madame  Dupont 
this  is  what  I  have  to  say  to  you.  An  effort  must  be 
made  to  reconcile  Julie  and  Antonin.  If  this  is  im- 
possible, /  will  pay  you  back  the  thirty  thousand 
francs. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [with  a  scream]  Good  Heavens,  what 
is  he  saying? 

MAIRAUT.  I  will  return  the  thirty  thousand  francs, 
and  you  '11  see  after  that  if  my  precious  son  won't  be  the 
first  to  talk  of  a  divorce. 

MME.  MAIRAUT  [to  her  husband]  You  shall  pay  for 
this  when  we  get  home. 

MAIRAUT.  As  you  please.  And  now  be  off,  and  be 
quick  about  it.  [Madame  Mairaut  goes  out]  Au  revoir, 
M.  and  Madame  Dupont.  Do  what  you  can  on  your  side, 
and  I  will  try  and  make  Antonin  come  and  beg  his  wife's 
pardon. 

DUPONT.     Good-evening,  M.  Mairaut. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Count  on  me,  M.  Mairaut,  and  give 
me  your  hand.  You  're  a  good  man. 

MAIRAUT  [as  he  goes]     That 's  all  right.     [He  goes]. 

DUPONT.    Are  you  really  going  to  try? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

DUPONT.  But  since  old  Mairaut  is  willing  to  give 
back  the  money? 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  won't  make  up  my  mind  to  a  divorce 
until  I  'm  absolutely  convinced  there  's  no  other  way. 

DUPONT.  But  there  is  no  other  way.  You  said  so 
yourself. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Are  you  sure  you  are  n't  thinking 
more  of  your  money  than  of  the  happiness  of  your  child  ? 


176  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

DUPONT.  I !  Well,  I  declare !  Are  you  taking  a  leaf 
out  of  old  Mairaut's  book? 

MME.  DUPONT  [gravely]     Perhaps  so. 
Madame  Mairaut  returns. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  I  have  come  back  for  two  things. 
First,  to  advise  you  not  to  count  too  much  on  my  hus- 
band's promise.  Next,  to  thank  you  for  the  fresh  insult 
you  have  put  upon  us. 

DUPONT.    What  insult? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  to  whom 
Mile.  Caroline  has  given  half  her  legacy  ? 

DUPONT.     No.     But  I  shall  be  glad  to  learn. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.     To  your  clerk,  Courthezon. 

DUPONT.     Courthezon  ?     It 's  a  lie ! 

MME.  DUPONT.    Courthezon! 

MME.  MAIRAUT.    She  has  just  told  me  so  herself. 
Caroline  comes  in. 


MME.  DUPONT. 


DUPONT. 
MME.  MAIRAUT. 


Caroline,  is  it  really  to  Courthezon 
that  you  Ve  given  the  fifteen  thou- 
sand francs? 

You  have  given  fifteen  thousand 
francs  to  Courthezon? 

Is  n't  it  to  Courthezon  that  you  have 


given  the  fifteen  thousand  francs? 

CAROLINE.    Yes. 

DUPONT.    You  are  crazy! 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  possessed  you  to  do  that? 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  For  his  invention !  An  invention  not 
worth  twopence,  Antonin  says. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  think  more  of  strangers  than 
your  own  flesh  and  blood. 

DUPONT.  Just  at  the  very  time  when  my  plant  needed 
renewing. 

MME.  MAIRAUT.  And  when  her  brother-in-law  is  on 
the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  Yes,  mademoiselle,  yes !  And 
this  money,  which  you  give  to  a  crack-brained  inventor 


Act  IV       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  177 

who  is  nothing  tc  you,  might  perhaps  have  saved  your 
sister  from  penury.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you. 
Good-bye.  [She  goes]. 

DUPONT.  Well !  Perhaps  now  you  '11  tell  us  why  you 
have  done  this  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.  What  has  taken  you?  How  did  such 
an  idea  come  into  your  head? 

DUPONT.  Do  you  imagine  his  invention  will  make 
your  fortune? 

CAROLINE.    No. 

DUPONT.    Do  you  know  anything  at  all  about  it? 

CAROLINE.    No. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Did  he  ask  you  to  lend  him  money? 

CAROLINE.    No. 

DUPONT.  Then  you  ought  to  be  put  in  an  asylum. 
You  're  out  of  your  senses. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  still  can't  make  out  how  you  came 
to  have  such  an  idea. 

CAROLINE  [beginning  to  cry]     I  was  unhappy. 

DUPONT.  What!  You  give  away  fifteen  thousand 
francs  to  the  first  comer  because  you  are  unhappy ! 

CAROLINE.  I  hope  he  will  be  grateful  for  what  I  have 
done  for  him,  and  that  — 

DUPONT.    Well? 

CAROLINE.  I  am  no  longer  young,  I  know;  but  he  is 
not  young  either. 

DUPONT.     You  think  he  will  marry  you! 

CAROLINE.    Yes. 

DUPONT.    Then  you  don't  know  — 

MME.  DUPONT.    Hush! 

CAROLINE.  I  can't  go  on  living  alone.  I  am  too 
wretched.  For  a  long  time  I  have  thought  —  when  I 
saw  M.  Courthezon,  so  steady  and  careful  and  quiet  — 
I  thought  I  could  be  happy  with  him.  But  I  knew  he 
would  never  marry  me  without  money,  and  there  was 
only  enough  for  Julie.  The  time  when  I  was  most  un- 


178  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

happy  was  when  M.  Antonin  was  here.  He  used  to  talk 
to  Julie.  They  took  no  notice  of  me.  They  used  to  kiss 
one  another.  And  though  I  don't  think  I  'm  jealous,  it 
made  me  very  wretched.  So  when  this  legacy  came,  and 
I  knew  M.  Courthezon  needed  money  for  his  invention, 
I  thought  I  would  give  him  some. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  should  at  least  have  given  him 
some  idea  of  what  you  meant.  It  would  have  saved  you 
from  disappointment,  my  poor  child. 

DUPONT.  You  should  have  spoken  to  me.  I  could 
have  told  you  why  you  had  nothing  to  hope  in  that 
quarter. 

CAROLINE.     Nothing  to  hope?     But  why?     Why? 

DUPONT.  Because  for  twenty  years  Courthezon  has 
been  living  with  a  married  woman.  He  does  not  speak 
of  it,  of  course,  but  they  have  two  children. 

CAROLINE  [faintly]  God  have  pity  on  me!  [She 
almost  falls]. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Caroline!     My  child! 

DUPONT.  My  child !  Come,  come !  You  must  be  rea- 
sonable. 

MME.  DUPONT.    You  must  n't  cry  like  that. 

CAROLINE  [sobbing]     No. 

DUPONT  [to  his  wife]  This  is  your  fault.  We  should 
have  told  her  that  Courthezon  —  But  you  always 
said  no. 

MME.  DUPONT.  One  can't  tell  things  like  that  to  a 
young  girl.  And  afterwards,  when  she  was  grown  up,  it 
didn't  seem  worth  while.  [To  Caroline]  Don't  cry  any 
more,  dear. 

CAROLINE  [stifling  her  sobs  by  a  great  effort]  I  am 
not  crying  any  more. 

DUPONT.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  We 
must  try  and  get  the  money  back  from  Courthezon. 

CAROLINE.    No !    No ! 

DUPONT.     We  shall  see.     [He  hurries  out]. 


Act  IV       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  179 

CAROLINE.  Stop  him!  Stop  him,  mother!  Go  at 
once.  Stop  him,  I  beg  of  you ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  Very  well,  dear.  [She  follows  her 
husband]. 

Caroline  is  left  alone  for  a  moment.  Then  Angele 
comes  in. 

ANGELE  [very  tenderly]  '  Caroline,  are  you  in 
trouble  ? 

CAROLINE  [in  a  low  voice]     Yes. 

ANGELE.     What   about?      Tell  me! 

CAROLINE  [in  an  expressionless  voice,  but  not  angrily] 
No.  It  is  over  now. 

ANGELE.    You  won't  tell  me  ? 

CAROLINE  [coldly]     It  would  be  useless. 

ANGELE.  Who  knows?  Come!  I  can  see  you  have 
been  crying. 

CAROLINE.    Yes.    We  are  very  unfortunate,  Julie  and  I. 

ANGELE.     Julie? 

CAROLINE.     She  is  leaving  her  husband. 

ANGELE.     Why? 

CAROLINE.  They  cannot  go  on  living  together  any 
longer. 

ANGELE.     And  you? 

CAROLINE.  I?  [She  makes  a  gesture  of  hopelessness]. 
Julie  comes  in. 

JULIE.  I  was  looking  for  you,  Caroline.  I  am  going 
away  sooner  than  I  expected.  They  say  my  husband 
is  coming  here.  I  do  not  wish  ever  to  see  him  again. 
So  I  am  going. 

CAROLINE.     What  will  you  do? 

JULIE.  I  shall  do  as  you  do;  hire  a  room  somewhere 
and  get  work. 

CAROLINE.     What  kind  of  work? 

JULIE.     I  don't  know.     Anything  I  can  get. 

CAROLINE.  Don't  do  that,  Julie.  Don't !  [Deeply 
distressed]  If  you  only  knew ! 


180  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

JULIE.      What? 

CAROLINE.    The  wretchedness  of  living  alone. 

JULIE.  I'  m  not  afraid.  I  shall  work  so  hard  that  I 
shall  have  no  time  for  moping. 

CAROLINE.  You  will  work.  [She  sighs]  It  is  n't 
easy  for  a  woman  who  is  alone  to  earn  her  living. 

JULIE.     Nonsense. 

CAROLINE.  I  know  what  I  'm  talking  about.  Some- 
times when  I  take  my  work  to  the  shop  they  refuse  it 
with  an  insolent  contempt  they  would  never  dare  to 
show  to  a  man.  It 's  true.  For  I  am  doubly  unpro- 
tected since  I  am  a  woman  and  I  need  work. 

JULIE.     But  in  your  own  room,  at  least,  you  are  free. 

CAROLINE.  Free!  [With  a  mirthless  laugh]  If 
that  is  freedom,  give  me  slavery. 

JULIE.    I  shall  have  friends. 

CAROLINE.  Do  you  think  so?  The  women  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  you  because  you  '11  be  a  wife  living 
apart  from  her  husband,  and  because  you  will  be  dull. 
And  the  men?  What  will  people  say  if  they  visit  you? 

JULIE.    Little  I  care  what  people  will  say. 

CAROLINE.  Still  for  your  own  sake  you  will  have  to 
send  them  away. 

JULIE.  What  do  you  advise,  then?  That  I  should 
remain  with  my  husband? 

CAROLINE.  Ah,  Julie  dear,  you  complain  of  not 
being  loved  as  you  wish  to  be.  What  can  /  say  to 
that,  I  whom  no  man  will  ever  take  in  his  arms?  I 
who  feel  myself  a  thing  apart,  useless,  absurd,  incom- 
plete. You  don't  know  what  a  void  that  means  for  a 
woman:  to  have  no  one  to  forgive,  no  one  to  devote 
herself  to.  And  the  world  sneers  at  women  for  re- 
maining single.  It  makes  their  loneliness  a  reproach. 
Look  at  me,  hardly  allowed  to  dispose  of  my  own 
property,  black  looks  all  round  me  because  I  have 
dared  to  use  my  own  money  in  my  own  way. 


Act  IV       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  181 

JULIE.     Poor  Caroline! 

CAROLINE.  Yes.  You  may  well  pity  me.  And  if 
I  told  you  all.  I  turned  to  religion  for  consolation. 
For  a  while  it  cheated  my  craving  for  love;  but  it 
couldn't  give  me  peace,  and  it  has  only  left  me  more 
bitter  and  more  disillusioned.  .  For  months  I  buoyed 
myself  up  on  one  last  hope.  I  was  a  fool.  [Weeping] 
Ah,  no  one  need  tell  me  how  absurd  it  was.  I  know 
it  well  enough.  I,  at  my  age  and  in  these  clothes, 
much  like  everyone  else's  clothes,  only  everything  looks 
ridiculous  on  me.  /  to  fall  in  love!  I  must  be  crazy. 
Don't  laugh  at  me.  I  have  suffered  so  much.  I  knew 
he  couldn't  love  me,  but  I  hoped  he  would  be  grateful 
for  what  I  —  I  only  wanted  his  gratitude  and  his  pity ; 
no  more,  I  swear  to  you.  And  now  it  seems  there  is 
some  other  woman.  [A  pause}  Oh,  what  good  was 
it  to  guard  my  good  name  as  a  miser  guards  his  gold 
if  this  is  all?  No,  Julie;  don't  spoil  your  life  a  second 
time.  If  you  cannot  resign  yourself  to  living  with 
your  husband,  at  least  don't  follow  my  example.  Don't 
try  to  live  my  life.  One  of  us  is  enough.  Don't  try 
to  earn  your  bread.  It  is  too  hard,  and  men  have 
made  it  too  humiliating. 

JULIE.  But,  Caroline,  if  people  see  me  accepting 
hardship  with  courage,  living  alone  deliberately,  be- 
cause I  choose,  surely  the  dignity  of  my  life  will  make 
them  respect  me? 

CAROLINE.  No  one  will  believe  in  the  dignity  of 
your  life. 

JULIE.  Then  it  is  monstrous !  That  is  all  I  can  say. 
Monstrous !  And  since  to  pay  for  bread  to  eat  and 
clothes  to  wear  and  a  roof  to  cover  me  I  must  either 
give  myself  to  a  husband  I  hate  or  to  a  lover  whom, 
perhaps,  I  may  love,  I  choose  the  lover.  If  I  must 
sell  myself  to  someone,  I  prefer  to  choose  the  buyer. 


182  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

ANGELE.  You  are  mad !  Mad !  Be  reconciled  to 
your  husband.  That  is  the  best  thing  you  can  do. 

JULIE.  So  everybody  says.  Well,  I  tell  you  I  will 
not!  I  will  not! 

ANGELE.  You  would  soon  be  glad  enough  to  have 
your  married  life  back  again,  bad  as  it  may  be;  or 
even  Caroline's  poverty. 

JULIE  [scornfully]     You  think  so? 

ANGELE  [passionately]  You  don't  know  what  you 
are  saying.  You  don't  understand,  Julie.  You  to  talk 
like  that!  You  to  wish —  Oh,  you  don't  understand. 

JULIE.     You  did  it,  yourself. 

ANGELE  [with  great  emotion]  Yes,  I  did  it.  But  I 
would  strangle  myself  rather  than  begin  it  again. 
Julie,  I  entreat  you.  What  am  I  to  say?  How  am  I 
to  stop  you?  I  can't  tell  you  and  Caroline  all  the 
shame  I  have  endured.  Oh,  don't  make  me  do  that. 

JULIE.     Well,  you  're  happy  now,  at  least. 

ANGELE.  Happy !  When  I  went  off  with  Georges  — 
They  told  you,  did  n't  they  ?  Well,  his  people  got  him 
away  from  me.  His  mother  was  dying  of  grief.  Yes: 
I  know  that  is  not  what  you  wish  to  hear,  but  I  must 
tell  you,  that  you  may  understand  how  I  came  to  fall 
as  low  as  I  did.  I  was  left  alone  with  the  child.  I 
had  to  feed  it,  had  n't  I  ?  You  can  understand  that,  at 
least.  But  how?  Work?  I  tried  to  get  work.  But 
they  told  me  to  wait.  How  was  I  to  wait?  And  then 
—  my  God !  that  I  should  have  to  tell  you  all  this  — 
then  I  let  myself  go.  [She  sobs]  And  afterwards  — 
No:  I  can't  speak  of  it.  But  you  understand,  Julie. 
You  can  guess.  You  can  imagine  what  my  life  was 
when  you  see  that  even  now  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
tell  you  about  it.  [Mastering  herself]  You  think 
women  —  women  like  me  —  are  happy  because  you 
see  us  laugh.  But  to  laugh  is  our  trade.  We  are  paid 
for  that.  And  I  swear  to  you  often  we  would  ask 


Act  IV       Of  Monsieur  Dupont  183 

nothing  better  than  just  to  sit  and  cry.  And  you 
talk  of  choosing!  You  poor  child!  Do  you  suppose 
we  women  choose?  Oh,  if  you  could  but  know  how 
one  comes  to  loathe  the  whole  world,  to  be  wicked, 
wicked!  They  despise  us  so.  We  have  no  friends,  no 
pity,  no  justice.  We  are  robbed,  exploited.  I  tell  you 
all  this,  anyhow,  just  as  it  comes,  but  you  understand, 
don't  you?  And  once  you  start  downhill  you  can't 
stop.  That  is  our  life,  the  life  of  women  like  me. 
That  is  the  slough  in  which  I  have  struggled  ten  years. 
No,  no,  Julie !  No,  little  sister !  I  implore  you  don't 
do  as  I  did.  It  is  too  horrible,  too  abject,  too  degraded. 

JULIE.     Poor  Angele. 

ANGELE.     You  understand,  don't  you? 

JULIE.    Yes. 

ANGELE  [rising]  I  must  go.  Good-bye.  I  dare 
not  look  either  of  you  in  the  face  again  now  that  you 
know  everything,  now  that  I  remember  what  I  once 
was.  I  knew  you  could  never  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  me.  But  I  felt  such  a  craving  to  be  loved 
that  I  half  fancied  you,  at  least,  Caroline  —  I  see  I 
was  wrong.  Well,  good-bye,  I  am  going  away.  Forgive 
me,  both  of  you,  for  what  I  have  done.  Good-bye. 
[She  turns  to  the  door]. 

CAROLINE.  Angele!  [A  pause.  Angele  turns  at  the 
door]  I  pity  you  with  all  my  heart.  [Another 
pause]  May  I  kiss  you?  [Angele  throws  herself  into 
her  arms]. 

ANGELE.  Caroline  !  My  kind,  good  Caroline ! 
The  three  sisters  embrace  with  tears. 
Dupont,  Antonin,  and  Mairaut  come  in. 

ANTONIN  [pushed  forward  by  his  father.  To  Julie] 
My  dear  wife,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me. 

JULIE.  It  is  I  who  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I  was 
full  of  romantic  ideas.  I  thought  marriage  something 
quite  different  from  what  it  is.  Now  that  I  understand 


184  The  Three  Daughters       Act  IV 

I  will  be  reasonable.  One  must  make  allowances.  I 
will  make  some  —  to  myself. 

DUPONT.    That 's  right. 

ANTONIN.  That 's  right.  You  can't  imagine  how 
glad  I  am  that  you  understand  me  at  last.  It  seems  to 
me  it 's  only  from  to-day  that  our  marriage  really 
begins. 

JULIE.    Perhaps. 

ANTONIN.  To  celebrate  our  reconciliation  I  will  give 
a  grand  dinner.  I  will  invite  the  Pouchelets,  the 
Rambourgs,  Lignol  — 

JULIE   [sadly  and  with  meaning]     Exactly  —  Lignol. 

DUPONT.  Ah,  my  children,  everything  comes  right 
when  once  you  make  up  your  mind  to  be  like  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

JULIE  [slowly]  Yes:  like  the  rest  of  the  world.  I 
dreamed  of  something  better.  But  it  seems  it  wag 
impossible. 


DAMAGED    GOODS 

[Les  Avari&s] 

Translated  by 
JOHN   POLLOCK 


Before  the  play  begins  the  manager  appears  upon  the 
stage  and  says :  — 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

I  beg  leave  to  inform  you,  on  behalf  of  the  author  and 
of  the  management,  that  the  object  of  this  play  is  a  study 
of  the  disease  of  syphilis  in  its  bearing  on  marriage. 

It  contains  no  scene  to  provoke  scandal  or  arouse  dis- 
gust, nor  is  there  in  it  any  obscene  word ;  and  it  may  be 
witnessed  by  everyone,  unless  we  must  believe  that  folly 
and  ignorance  are  necessary  conditions  of  female  virtue. 


ACT    I 

The  doctor's  consulting  room.  To  the  right  a  large 
stained-glass  window  representing  a  religious  subject. 
In  front  of  this,  on  pedestals,  bronzes  and  statues.  Par- 
allel to  it  a  large  Louis  XIF  writing-table  littered  with 
papers  and  statuettes.  Between  the  desk  and  the  win- 
dow the  doctor's  chair.  On  the  other  side  an  arm-chair 
nearly  facing  the  footlights  and  a  stool.  To  the  left  the 
entrance  door,  which,  when  opened,  reveals  a  corridor 
lined  with  tapestries,  statues,  and  paintings.  Beyond 
the  door  a  large  glass  bookcase,  above  which  hang  por- 
traits of  Wallace,  Dupuytren,  and  Ricord.  Busts  of  cel- 
ebrated physicians.  A  small  table  and  two  chairs.  At 
the  back  a  small  door.  The  room  is  sumptuously  fur- 
nished and  literally  encumbered  with  works  of  art. 

George  Dupont,  in  great  distress  and  ill  at  ease,  enters 
by  the  door  at  the  back,  takes  his  stick,  gloves,  and  hat 
from  the  stool,  and  sits  down  on  the  sofa  before  the 
writing-table.  He  is  a  big  fellow  of  twenty-six,  with 
large,  round  eyes,  and  simple,  but  not  ludicrous  appear- 
ance. A  heavy  sigh  escapes  him.  The  doctor,  a  man  of 
forty,  with  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  frock-coat,  follows  and  takes  his  seat. 
He  gives  the  impression  of  a  man  of  strength  and 
intellect. 

GEORGE.    Well,  doctor? 

DOCTOR.    Well !     There  is  no  doubt  about  your  case. 
GEORGE  [wiping  his  forehead]     No  doubt —    How  do 
you  mean  no  doubt? 

187 


188  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

DOCTOR.  I  mean  it  in  the  bad  sense.  [He  writes. 
George  turns  pale,  and  stays  silent  for  a  moment  in 
terror.  He  sighs  again]  Come,  come !  You  must  have 
thought  as  much. 

GEORGE.    No,  no. 

DOCTOR.    All  the  same ! 

GEORGE  [utterly  prostrated]     Good  God  ! 

DOCTOR  [stops  writing  and  observes  him]  Don't  be 
frightened.  Out  of  every  seven  men  you  meet  in  the 
street,  or  in  society,  or  at  the  theatre,  there  is  at  least 
one  who  is  or  has  been  in  your  condition.  One  in  seven, 
fifteen  per  cent. 

GEORGE  [quietly,  as  if  to  himself]  Anyhow,  I  know 
what  to  do. 

DOCTOR.  Certainly.  Here  is  your  prescription.  You 
will  take  it  to  the  chemist's  and  have  it  made  up. 

GEORGE   [taking  the  prescription]     No. 

DOCTOR.  Yes:  you  will  do  just  what  everyone  else 
does. 

GEORGE.  Everyone  else  is  not  in  my  position.  I 
know  what  to  do.  [He  raises  his  hand  to  his  temple], 

DOCTOR.  Five  times  out  of  ten  the  men  who  sit  in 
that  chair  before  me  do  that,  perfectly  sincerely.  Every- 
one thinks  himself  more  unfortunate  than  the  rest.  On 
second  thoughts,  and  after  I  have  talked  to  them,  they 
realize  that  this  disease  is  a  companion  with  which  one 
can  live;  only,  as  in  all  households,  domestic  peace  is  to 
be  had  at  the  price  of  mutual  concessions.  Come  now, 
I  repeat,  there  is  nothing  in  all  this  beyond  the  ordinary. 
It  is  simply  an  accident  that  might  happen  to  anybody. 
I  assure  you  it  is  far  too  common  to  merit  the  name 
"  French  disease."  There  is,  in  fact,  none  that  is  more 
universal.  If  you  wanted  to  find  a  motto  for  the  crea- 
tures who  make  a  trade  of  selling  their  love,  you  could 
almost  take  the  famous  lines,  "  There  is  your  master. 
...  It  is,  it  was,  or  it  must  be." 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  189 

GEORGE  [putting  the  prescription  in  the  outer 
pocket  of  his  coat]  But  I  at  least  ought  to  have  been 
spared. 

DOCTOR.  Why?  Because  you  are  a  man  of  good  posi- 
tion? Because  you  are  rich?  Look  round  you.  Look 
at  these  works  of  art;  five  are  copies  of  John  of  Bo- 
logna's Mercury,  six  of  Pigallo's,  three  are  reproduc- 
tions —  in  wax,  to  be  sure  —  of  the  lost  Wounded  Love 
by  Paccini;  do  you  think  that  all  these  have  been  pre- 
sented to  me  by  beggars  ? 

GEORGE  [groaning]  I  'm  not  a  rake,  doctor.  My  life 
might  be  held  up  as  an  example  to  all  young  men.  I 
assure  you,  no  one  could  possibly  have  been  more  pru- 
dent, no  one.  See  here;  supposing  I  told  you  that  in  all 
my  life  I  have  only  had  two  mistresses,  what  would  you 
say  to  that? 

DOCTOR.  That  one  would  have  been  enough  to  bring 
you  here. 

GEORGE.  No,  doctor,  not  one  of  those  two.  No  one 
in  the  world  has  dreaded  this  so  much  as  I  have ;  no  one 
has  ever  taken  such  infinite  precautions  to  avoid  it.  My 
first  mistress  was  the  wife  of  my  best  friend.  I  chose 
her  on  account  of  him;  and  him,  not  because  I  cared 
most  for  him,  but  because  I  knew  he  was  a  man  of  the 
most  rigid  morals,  who  watched  his  wife  jealously  and 
did  n't  let  her  go  about  forming  imprudent  connections. 
As  for  her,  I  kept  her  in  absolute  terror  of  this  disease. 
I  told  her  that  almost  all  men  were  taken  with  it,  so  that 
she  might  n't  dream  of  being  false  to  me.  My  friend  died 
in  my  arms:  that  was  the  only  thing  that  could  have 
separated  me  from  her.  Then  I  took  up  with  a  young 
seamstress. 

DOCTOR.  None  of  your  other  friends  had  sufficiently 
reassuring  morals  ? 

GEORGE.     No.     You  know  what  morals  are  nowadays. 

DOCTOR.     Better  than  anyone. 


190  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

GEORGE.  Well,  this  was  a  decent  girl  with  a  family 
in  needy  circumstances  to  support.  Her  grandmother 
was  an  invalid,  and  there  was  an  ailing  father  and  three 
little  brothers.  It  was  by  my  means  that  they  all  lived. 
They  used  to  call  me  Uncle  Raoul  —  I  was  not  so  green 
as  to  give  my  real  name,  you  see. 

DOCTOR.  Oh !  Your  Christian  name,  well  — -  besides, 
it  is  always  safer. 

GEORGE.  Why,  of  course.  I  told  her  and  I  let  the 
others  know  that  if  she  played  me  false  I  should  leave 
her  at  once.  So  then  they  all  watched  her  for  me.  It 
became  a  regular  thing  that  I  should  spend  Sunday  with 
them,  and  in  that  sort  of  way  I  was  able  to  give  her  a 
lift  up.  Church-going  was  a  respectable  kind  of  outing 
for  her.  I  rented  a  pew  for  them  and  her  mother  used 
to  go  with  her  to  church;  they  liked  seeing  their  name 
engraved  on  the  card.  She  never  left  the  house  alone. 
Three  months  ago,  when  the  question  of  my  marriage 
came  up,  I  had  to  leave  her.  They  all  cried  over  my 
going.  I  'm  not  inventing  or  exaggerating:  they  all 
cried.  You  see,  I  'm  not  a  bad  sort.  People  do  re- 
gret me. 

DOCTOR.  You  were  very  happy.  Why  did  you  want 
to  change? 

GEORGE  [surprised  at  the  question]  I  wanted  to  settle 
down.  My  father  was  a  notary,  and  before  his  death 
he  expressed  the  wish  that  I  should  marry  my  cousin.  It 
was  a  good  match ;  her  dowry  will  help  to  get  me  a  prac- 
tice. Besides,  I  simply  adore  her.  She  's  fond  of  me, 
too.  I  had  everything  one  could  want  to  make  life  happy. 
My  acquaintances  all  envied  me.  [Miserably]  And 
then  a  lot  of  idiots  must  give  me  a  farewell  dinner  and 
make  me  gad  about  with  them.  See  what  has  come  of 
it !  I  have  n't  any  luck,  I  've  never  had  any  luck !  I 
know  fellows  who  lead  the  most  racketty  lives:  nothing 
happens  to  them,  the  beasts !  But  I  —  for  a  wretched 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  191 

lark —  What  is  there  left  for  a  leper  like  me?  My 
future  is  ruined,  my  whole  life  poisoned.  Well  then, 
is  n't  it  better  for  me  to  clear  out  of  it  ?  Anyway,  I  shan't 
suffer  any  more.  You  see  now,  no  one  could  be  more 
wretched  than  I  am.  [Crying]  No  one,  doctor,  I  tell 
you,  no  one !  [He  buries  his  face  in  his  handkerchief] 
Oh,  oh,  oh ! 

DOCTOR  [rising  and  going  to  him  with  a  smile]  You 
must  be  a  man,  and  not  cry  like  a  child. 

GEORGE  [still  in  tears]  If  I  had  led  a  wild  life  and 
spent  my  time  in  bars  and  going  about  with  women,  I 
should  understand:  I  should  say  I  deserved  it. 

DOCTOR.     No. 

GEORGE.    No? 

DOCTOR.  No.  You  would  not  say  so:  but  it  doesn't 
matter.  Go  on. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  I  know  I  should.  I  should  say  I  de- 
served it.  But  for  nothing!  nothing!  I  have  cut  myself 
off  from  all  pleasures.  I  have  resisted  attractions  as  you 
would  the  devil.  I  would  n't  go  with  my  friends  to 
places  of  amusement:  ladies  I  knew  actually  pointed  me 
out  to  their  boys  as  an  example.  I  stuck  to  my  work:  I 
forced  myself  to  be  more  regular  in  my  habits.  Why,  my 
two  friends  helped  me  to  prepare  for  my  law  exams. 
I  taught  them  to  make  me  cram,  and  it 's  thanks  to  them 
that  I  got  through.  Oh,  I  should  have  liked  to  come 
home  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  my  coat-collar 
turned  up,  smoking  a  cigar  lit  in  some  ballet-girl's  rooms  ! 
I  've  longed  as  much  as  anyone  for  the  taste  of  rouged 
lips  and  the  glitter  of  blacked  eyes  and  pale  faces !  I 
should  have  liked  larks  and  jolly  suppers  and  cham- 
pagne and  the  rustle  of  lace  and  all  the  rest  of  it !  I  've 
sacrificed  all  that  to  my  health,  and  see  what  I  Ve  got 
for  it.  Ah,  if  I  had  kno'.vn !  If  I  had  only  known! 
Then  I  should  have  let  myself  go;  yes,  altogether! 
That  would  have  been  something  to  the  good,  anyway ! 


192  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

When  I  think  of  it !  When  I  think  of  the  beastliness,  the 
frightful  horrors  in  store  for  me! 

DOCTOR.     What 's  all  that  nonsense  ? 

GEORGE.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  —  hair  falling  out,  camo- 
mile for  a  cocktail,  and  a  bath  chair  for  a  motor  car,  with 
a  little  handle  for  the  steering  wheel  and  a  fellow  shov- 
ing behind  instead  of  the  engine;  and  I  shall  go,  Gug, 
&*&>  f~PS>  gug-  [Cry*n9]  That's  what  will  be  left  of 
handsome  Raoul  —  that 's  what  they  called  me,  hand- 
some Raoul! 

DOCTOR.  My  dear  sir,  kindly  dry  your  eyes  for  the 
last  time,  blow  your  nose,  put  your  handkerchief  in  your 
pocket,  and  listen  to  me  without  blubbering. 

GEORGE  [doing  so]  Yes,  doctor;  but  I  warn  you, 
you  are  wasting  your  time. 

DOCTOR.    I  assure  you  — 

GEORGE.     I  know  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me. 

DOCTOR.  In  that  case  you  have  no  business  here.  Be 
off  with  you! 

GEORGE.  As  I  am  here,  I  '11  listen,  doctor.  It 's 
awfully  good  of  you. 

DOCTOR.  If  you  have  the  will  and  the  perseverance, 
none  of  the  things  you  are  dreading  will  happfen  to  you. 

GEORGE.    Of  course.     You  are  bound  to  tell  me  that. 

DOCTOR.  I  tell  you  that  there  are  a  hundred  thousand 
men  in  Paris  like  you,  sound  and  in  good  health,  I  give 
you  my  word.  Come,  now !  Bath  chairs  !  You  don't  see 
quite  so  many  as  that. 

GEORGE  [struck]     Nor  do  you. 

DOCTOR.  Besides,  those  who  are  in  them  are  not  all 
there  for  the  reason  you  think.  Come,  come !  You  will 
not  be  the  victim  of  a  catastrophe  any  more  than  the 
other  hundred  thousand.  The  thing  is  serious:  nothing 
more. 

GEORGE.    There,  you  see.    It  is  a  serious  disease. 

DOCTOR.    Yes. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  193 

GEORGE.    One  of  the  most  serious. 

DOCTOR.    Yes ;   but  you  have  the  good  luck  — 

GEORGE.     Good  luck? 

DOCTOR.  Relatively,  if  you  like;  but  you  have  the 
good  luck  to  have  contracted  just  that  one  among  serious 
diseases  which  we  have  the"  most  effective  means  of 
combating. 

GEORGE.    I  know:  remedies  worse  than  the  disease. 

DOCTOR.     You  are  mistaken. 

GEORGE.  You  're  not  going  to  tell  me  that  it  can  be 
cured  ? 

DOCTOR.     It  can. 

GEORGE.    And  that  I  am  not  condemned  to  — 

DOCTOR.    I  give  you  my  word  on  it. 

GEORGE.  You  're  not  —  you  're  not  making  some  mis- 
take ?  I  have  been  told  — 

DOCTOR  [shrugging  his  shoulders]  You  have  been 
told !  You  have  been  told !  No  doubt  you  know  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  law  of  property. 

GEORGE.  Yes,  certainly;  but  I  don't  see  what 
connection  — 

DOCTOR.  Instead  of  being  taught  that,  it  would  have 
been  much  better  if  you  had  been  told  the  nature  of  the 
disease  from  which  you  are  suffering.  Then,  perhaps, 
you  would  have  been  sufficiently  afraid  to  avoid  con- 
tracting it. 

GEORGE.  But  this  woman  was  so  —  well,  who  could 
have  thought  such  a  thing  of  her  ?  I  did  n't  take  a 
woman  off  the  streets,  you  know.  She  lives  in  the  Rue 
de  Berne  —  not  exactly  a  low  part  of  the  town,  is  it  ? 

DOCTOR.  The  part  of  the  town  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  This  disease  differs  from  many  others ;  it  has  no 
preference  for  the  unfortunate. 

GEORGE.  But  this  womdn  lives  almost  straight.  One 
of  my  chums  has  a  mistress  who  's  a  married  woman. 
Well,  it  was  a  friend  of  hers.  Her  mother  —  she  lives 


194  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

with  her  mother  —  was  abroad  at  the  time.  At  first  she 
would  n't  listen  to  me :  then,  finally,  after  I  had  spent 
a  whole  half-hour  persuading  her  I  had  to  promise  her  a 
ring  like  one  of  her  friend's  before  she  would  give  way. 
She  even  made  me  take  off  my  boots  before  going  up- 
stairs so  that  the  porter  might  n't  hear. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  if  you  had  been  taught,  you  would 
have  known  that  these  circumstances  are  no  guarantee. 

GEORGE.     That 's  true ;   we  ought  to  be  taught. 

DOCTOR.    Yes. 

GEORGE.  At  the  same  time  it 's  not  a  subject  that  can 
be  broached  in  the  papers. 

DOCTOR.    Why  not? 

GEORGE.  I  can  speak  of  my  own  knowledge,  for  my 
father  used  to  own  a  small  provincial  paper.  If  we  had 
ever  printed  that  word,  the  circulation  would  have 
dropped  like  a  stone. 

DOCTOR.    Yet  you  would  publish  novels  about  adultery. 

GEORGE.     Of  course.     That 's  what  the  public  wants. 

DOCTOR.  You  are  right.  It  is  the  public  that  needs 
to  be  educated.  A  respectable  man  will  take  his  wife 
and  daughters  to  a  music-hall,  where  they  hear  things 
to  make  a  doctor  blush.  His  modesty  is  only  alarmed 
by  serious  words. 

GEORGE.  And  then,  after  all,  what  would  one  gain 
by  being  posted  up  about  this  disease? 

DOCTOR.  If  it  were  better  understood  it  would  be 
more  often  avoided. 

GEORGE.  What  one  wants  is  some  means  of  avoiding 
it  altogether. 

DOCTOR.     Oh !   That  is  quite  simple. 

GEORGE.    Tell  me. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  no  longer  any  concern  of  yours;  but 
when  you  have  a  son  you  will  be  able  to  tell  him  what 
to  do. 

GEORGE.    What's  that? 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  195 

DOCTOR.  To  lova-  only  one  woman,  to  be  her  first  lover, 
and  to  love  her  so  well  that  she  will  never  be  false  to  you. 

GEORGE.  That 's  easy,  is  n't  it?  And  if  my  son  does 
not  marry  till  he  is  twenty-eight,  what  then? 

DOCTOR,  Then,  that  he  may  run  the  least  risk,  you 
will  tell  him  to  go  to  the  licensed  dealers  — 

GEORGE.    With  a  guarantee  from  the  government. 

DOCTOR.    And  to  choose  them  a  little  stale. 

GEORGE.     Why   so? 

DOCTOR.  Because  at  a  certain  age  they  have  all  paid 
their  toll.  The  prettiest  girl  in  the  world  can  give  all 
she  has,  not  what  she  has  no  longer.  That  is  what  you 
will  tell  your  sons. 

GEORGE..  But  do  you  mean  that  I  can  have  children? 

DOCTOR.     Certainly. 

GEORGE.    Healthy  ones? 

DOCTOR.  Perfectly  healthy.  I  repeat:  if  you  take 
proper  and  reasonable  care  of  yourself  for  the  necessary 
length  of  time,  you  have  little  to  fear. 

GEORGE.     Is  that  certain? 

DOCTOR.     Ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred. 

GEORGE.    Then  I  shall  be  able  to  marry? 

DOCTOR.     You  will  be  able  to  marry. 

GEORGE.  You're  not  deceiving  me,  are  you?  You 
wouldn't  give  me  false  hopes?  You  wouldn't  — 
How  soon  shall  I  be  able  to  marry? 

DOCTOR.     In  three  or  four  years. 

GEORGE.    What!   three  or  four  years ?    Not  before? 

DOCTOR.     Not  before. 

GEORGE.  Why?  Am  I  going  to  be  ill  all  that  time? 
You  said  just  now  — 

DOCTOR.  The  disease  will  no  longer  be  dangerous  to 
you  yourself,  but  you  will  be  dangerous  to  others. 

GEORGE.  But,  doctor,  I  am  going  to  be  married  in  a 
month ! 

DOCTOR.     Impossible. 


196  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

GEORGE.  I  can't  help  it.  The  contract  is  all  ready: 
the  banns  have  been  published.  I  have  given  my  word. 

DOCTOR.  Here  's  a  pretty  patient !  A  moment  ago 
you  were  feeling  for  your  pistol;  now  you  want  to  be 
married  in  a  month! 

GEORGE.    But  I  must! 

DOCTOR.     I   forbid  you. 

GEORGE.  You  can't  mean  that  seriously.  If  this 
disease  is  not  what  I  imagined,  and  if  I  can  be  cured, 
I  shan't  commit  suicide.  If  I  don't  kill  myself,  I  must 
take  up  the  ordinary  course  of  my  life.  I  must  fulfill  my 
engagements:  I  must  be  married. 

DOCTOR.     No. 

GEORGE.  If  my  engagement  were  broken  off  it  would 
be  absolutely  disastrous.  You  talk  of  it  like  that  be- 
cause you  don't  know.  I  did  n't  want  to  get  married. 
I  have  told  you  —  I  had  almost  a  second  family ;  the 
children  adored  me.  It  is  my  old  aunt,  who  owns  all  the 
property,  who  has  pushed  on  the  match.  Then  my 
mother  wants  to  see  me  "  settled  "  as  she  says.  The  only 
thing  in  the  world  she  wants  is  to  see  her  baby  grand- 
children, and  she  wonders  twenty  times  a  day  whether 
she  will  live  long  enough.  Since  the  question  first  came 
up  she  simply  has  n't  thought  of  anything  else ;  it 's 
the  dream  of  her  life.  And  then  I  tell  you  I  have  begun 
to  adore  Henriette.  If  I  draw  back  now  my  mother 
would  die  of  grief,  and  I  should  be  disinherited  by  my 
aunt.  Even  that  is  n't  all.  You  don't  know  my  father- 
in-law's  character.  He  is  a  man  of  regular  high  old 
principles ;  and  he  has  a  temper  like  the  devil.  What 's 
more,  he  simply  worships  his  daughter.  It  would  cost 
me  dear,  I  can  assure  you.  He  would  call  me  to  ac- 
count —  I  don't  know  what  would  happen.  So  there 
are  my  mother's  health,  my  aunt's  fortune,  my  future, 
my  honor,  perhaps  my  life,  all  at  stake.  Besides,  I  tell 
you  I  have  given  my  word. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  197 

DOCTOR.     You  must  take  it  back. 

GEORGE.  Well,  since  you  stick  to  it,  even  if  that  were 
possible,  I  could  not  take  back  my  signature  to  the  con- 
tract for  the  purchase  of  a  notary's  practice  in  two 
months'  time. 

DOCTOR.     All  these  — 

GEORGE.  You  won't  tell  me  that  I  have  been  impru- 
dent because  I  have  not  disposed  of  my  wife's  dowry 
till  after  the  honeymoon  — 

DOCTOR.  All  these  considerations  are  foreign  to  me. 
I  am  a  physician,  nothing  but  a  physician.  I  can  only 
tell  you  this:  if  you  marry  before  three  or  four  years 
have  elapsed  you  will  be  a  criminal. 

GEORGE.  No,  no !  You  are  more  than  a  physician :  you 
are  a  confessor  as  well.  You  are  not  only  a  man  of 
science.  You  can't  observe  me  as  you  would  something 
in  your  laboratory  and  then  simply  say:  "  You  have  this, 
science  says  that.  Now  be  off  with  you !  "  My  whole 
life  depends  upon  you.  You  must  listen  to  me;  because 
when  you  know  everything  you  will  understand  the  situ- 
ation and  will  find  the  means  to  cure  me  in  a  month. 

DOCTOR.  I  can  only  tell  you  over  and  over  again  that 
no  such  means  exist.  It  is  impossible  to  be  certain  of 
your  cure  —  as  far  as  one  can  be  certain  —  under 
three  or  four  years. 

GEORGE.  I  tell  you  that  you  must  find  one.  Listen 
to  me:  if  I  am  not  married,  I  shall  not  get  the  dowry. 
Will  you  kindly  tell  me  how  I  am  to  carry  out  the  con- 
tract I  have  signed? 

DOCTOR.  Oh,  if  that  is  the  question,  it  is  very  simple. 
I  can  easily  show  you  the  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  Get 
into  touch  with  some  rich  man,  do  everything  you  can 
to  gain  his  confidence,  and  when  you  have  succeeded, 
rook  him  of  all  he  has. 

GEORGE.     I  'm  not  in  the  mood  for  joking. 

DOCTOR.     I  am  not  joking.     To  rob  that  man,  or  even 


198  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

to  murder  him,  would  not  be  a  greater  crime  than  you 
would  commit  in  marrying  a  young  girl  in  good  health 
to  get  hold  of  her  dowry,  if  to  do  so  you  exposed  her  to 
the  terrible  consequences  of  the  disease  you  would  give 
her. 

GEORGE.     Terrible  ? 

DOCTOR.  Terrible;  and  death  is  not  the  worst  of 
them. 

GEORGE.     But  you  told  me  just  now  — 

DOCTOR.  Just  now  I  did  not  tell  you  everything.  This 
disease,  even  when  it  is  all  but  suppressed,  still  lies  below 
the  surface  ready  to  break  out  again.  Taken  all  round, 
it  is  serious  enough  to  make  it  an  infamy  to  expose  a 
woman  to  it  in  order  to  avoid  even  the  greatest  incon- 
venience. 

GEORGE.    But  is  it  certain  that  she  would  catch  it? 

DOCTOR.  Even  with  the  best  intentions,  I  won't  tell 
you  lies.  No;  it  is  not  absolutely  certain.  It  is  prob- 
able. And  there  is  something  else  I  will  tell  you.  Our 
remedies  are  not  infallible.  In  a  certain  number  of 
cases  —  a  very  small  number,  scarcely  five  per  cent.  — 
they  have  no  effect.  You  may  be  one  of  these  exceptions 
or  your  wife  may  be.  In  that  case  —  I  will  use  an  ex- 
pression you  used  just  now  —  in  that  case  the  result 
would  be  the  most  frightful  horrors. 

GEORGE.    Give  me  your  advice. 

DOCTOR.  The  only  advice  I  can  give  you  is  not  to 
marry.  To  put  it  in  this  way,  you  owe  a  debt.  Perhaps 
its  repayment  will  not  be  exacted;  but  at  the  same  time 
your  creditor  may  come  down  on  you  suddenly,  after  a 
long  interval,  with  the  most  pitiless  brutality.  Come, 
come !  You  are  a  man  of  business.  Marriage  is  a  con- 
tract. If  you  marry  without  saying  anything,  you  will 
be  giving  an  implied  warranty  for  goods  which  you  know 
to  be  bad.  That  is  the  term,  is  n't  it  ?  It  would  be  a 
fraud  which  ought  to  be  punishable  by  law. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  199 

GEORGE.    But  what  can  I  do? 

DOCTOR.  Go  to  your  father-in-law  and  tell  him  the  un- 
varnished truth. 

GEORGE.  If  I  do  that,  it  will  not  be  a  delay  of  three 
or  four  years  that  he  will  impose  on  me.  He  will  refuse 
his  consent  for  good. 

DOCTOR.     In  that  case,  tell  him  nothing. 

GEORGE.  If  I  don't  give  him  a  reason,  I  don't  know 
what  he  won't  do.  He  is  a  man  of  the  most  violent  tem- 
per. Besides,  it  will  be  still  worse  for  Henriette  than 
for  me.  Look  here,  doctor;  from  what  I  have  said  to 
you,  no  doubt  you  think  I  simply  care  for  the  money. 
Well,  I  do  think  it  is  one's  primary  duty  to  make  certain 
of  a  reasonable  amount  of  comfort.  From  my  youth 
upwards  I  have  always  been  taught  that.  Nowadays 
one  must  think  of  it,  and  I  should  never  have  engaged 
myself  to  a  girl  without  money.  It 's  perfectly  natural. 
[With  emotion]  But  she  is  so  splendid,  she  is  so  much 
better  than  I  am  that  I  love  her  —  as  people  love  one 
another  in  books.  Of  course  it  would  be  a  frightful  dis- 
appointment not  to  have  the  practice  that  I  have  bought, 
but  that  would  not  be  the  worst  for  me.  The  worst 
would  be  losing  her.  If  you  could  see  her,  if  you  knew 
her,  you  would  understand.  [Taking  out  his  pocket- 
book]  Look  here;  here  's  her  photograph.  Just  look  at 
it.  [The  doctor  gently  refuses  it]  Oh,  my  darling,  to 
think  that  I  must  lose  you  or  else  —  Ah !  [He  kisses 
the  photograph,  then  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket]  I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  am  being  ridiculous.  I  know  I  am  some- 
times. Only  put  yourself  in  my  place.  I  love  her 
so. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  on  that  account  that  you  must  not  marry 
her. 

GEORGE.  But  how  can  I  get  out  of  it?  If  I  draw 
back  without  saying  anything  the  truth  will  leak  out  and 
I  shall  be  dishonored. 


200  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

DOCTOR.  There  is  nothing  dishonorable  about  being 
ill. 

GEORGE.  Ah,  yes !  But  people  are  such  idiots.  Even 
yesterday  I  myself  should  have  laughed  at  anyone  I 
knew  who  was  in  the  position  that  I  am  in  now.  Why, 
I  should  have  avoided  him  as  if  he  had  the  plague.  Oh, 
if  I  were  the  only  one  to  suffer !  But  she  —  she  loves 
me,  I  swear  she  does,  she  is  so  good.  It  will  be  dreadful 
for  her. 

DOCTOR.    Less  so  than  it  would  be  later. 

GEORGE.     There  '11  be  a  scandal. 

DOCTOR.     You  will  avoid  a  bigger  one. 

George  quietly  puts  two  twenty-franc  pieces  on  the 
desk,  takes  his  gloves,  hat,  and  stick,  and  gets  up. 

GEORGE.  I  will  think  it  over.  Thank  you,  doctor.  I 
shall  come  back  next  week  as  you  told  me  to  —  proba- 
bly. [He  goes  toward  the  door], 

DOCTOR  [rising]  No:  I  shall  not  see  you  next  week, 
and  what  is  more  you  will  not  think  it  over.  You  came 
here  knowing  what  you  had,  with  the  express  intention 
of  not  acting  by  my  advice  unless  it  agreed  with  your 
wishes.  A  flimsy  honesty  made  you  take  this  chance  of 
pacifying  your  conscience.  You  wanted  to  have  someone 
on  whom  you  could  afterwards  throw  the  responsibility 
of  an  act  you  knew  to  be  culpable.  Don't  protest.  Many 
who  come  here  think  as  you  think  and  do  what  you 
want  to  do.  But  when  they  have  married  in  opposition 
to  my  advice  the  results  have  been  for  the  most  part  so 
calamitous  that  now  I  am  almost  afraid  of  not  having 
been  persuasive  enough.  I  feel  as  though  in  spite  of 
everything  I  were  in  some  sort  the  cause  of  their  misery. 
I  ought  to  be  able  to  prevent  such  misery.  If  only  the 
people  who  are  the  cause  of  it  knew  what  I  know  and  had 
seen  what  I  have  seen,  it  would  be  impossible.  Give  me 
your  word  that  you  will  break  off  your  engagement. 

GEORGE.  I  can't  give  you  my  word.  I  can  only  repeat : 
I  will  think  it  over. 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  201 

DOCTOR.     Think  over  what? 

GEORGE.    What  you  have  told  me. 

DOCTOR.  But  what  I  have  told  you  is  true.  You  can- 
not make  any  fresh  objections.  I  have  answered  those 
you  have  made.  You  must  be  convinced. 

GEORGE.  Well,  of  course  you  are  right  in  thinking  that 
I  posted  myself  up  a  bit  before  coming  to  see  you.  In 
the  first  place,  is  it  certain  that  I  have  the  disease  you 
think  ?  You  say  so,  and  perhaps  it  is  true.  But  even  the 
greatest  doctors  are  sometimes  deceived.  Have  n't  I 
heard  that  Ricord,  your  master,  used  to  maintain  that  this 
disease  was  not  always  contagious?  He  produced  cases 
to  prove  his  point.  Now  you  produce  fresh  cases  to 
disprove  it.  Very  well.  But  I  have  the  right  to  think  it 
over.  And  when  I  think  it  over,  I  realize  the  results  you 
threaten  me  with  are  only  probable.  In  spite  of  your 
desire  to  frighten  me,  you  have  been  compelled  to  admit 
that  my  marriage  will  quite  possibly  produce  no  ill  results 
for  my  wife. 

DOCTOR  [restraining  himself  with  difficulty]  Go  on. 
I  will  answer  you. 

GEORGE.  You  tell  me  that  your  drugs  are  powerful, 
and  that  for  the  catastrophes  you  speak  of  to  happen  I 
must  be  one  of  the  five  exceptions  per  cent,  you  allow, 
and  that  my  wife  must  be  an  exception  too.  Now,  if  a 
mathematician  calculated  the  probabilities  of  the  case, 
the  chance  of  a  catastrophe  would  prove  so  small  that, 
when  the  slight  probability  of  a  disaster  was  set  against 
the  certainty  of  all  the  disappointments  and  the  un- 
happiness  and  perhaps  the  tragedies  which  my  break- 
ing off  the  match  would  cause,  he  would  undoubtedly 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  right  and  you  were 
wrong.  After  all,  mathematics  is  more  scientific  than 
medicine. 

DOCTOR.  Ah,  you  think  so !  Well,  you  are  wrong. 
Twenty  cases  identical  with  yours  have  been  carefully 


202  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

observed  —  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  Nineteen 
times  —  you  hear,  nineteen  times  in  twenty  —  the  woman 
was  contaminated  by  her  husband.  You  think  that  the 
danger  is  negligible:  you  think  you  have  the  right  to 
make  your  wife  take  her  chance,  as  you  said,  of  being 
one  of  the  exceptions  for  which  we  can  do  nothing ! 
Very  well:  then  you  shall  know  what  you  are  doing. 
You  shall  know  what  sort  of  disease  it  is  that  your  wife 
will  have  five  chances  per  cent,  of  contracting  without 
so  much  as  having  her  leave  asked.  Take  this  book  — 
it  is  my  master's  work  —  here,  read  for  yourself,  I 
have  marked  the  passage.  You  won't  read  it?  Then  I 
will.  [He  reads  passionately]  "  I  have  seen  an  un- 
fortunate young  woman  changed  by  this  disease  into  the 
likeness  of  a  beast.  The  face,  or  I  should  rather  say, 
what  remained  of  it,  was  nothing  but  a  flat  surface 
seamed  with  scars." 

GEORGE.     Stop,  for  pity's  sake,  stop! 

DOCTOR.  I  shall  not  stop.  I  shall  read  to  the  end. 
I  shall  not  refrain  from  doing  right  merely  for  fear 
of  upsetting  your  nerves.  [He  goes  on]  "  Of  the 
upper  lip,  which  had  been  completely  eaten  away,  not 
a  trace  remained."  There,  that  will  do.  And  you  are 
willing  to  run  the  risk  of  inflicting  that  disease  on  a 
woman  whom  you  say  you  love,  though  you  cannot  sup- 
port even  the  description  of  it  yourself?  And  pray,  from 
whom  did  that  woman  catch  syphilis?  It  is  not  I  who 
say  all  this :  it  is  this  book.  "  From  a  man  whose  crimi- 
nal folly  was  such  that  he  was  not  afraid  to  enter  into 
marriage  in  an  eruption,  as  was  afterwards  established, 
of  marked  secondary  symptoms,  and  who  had  further 
thought  fit  not  to  have  his  wife  treated  for  fear  of 
arousing  suspicion."  What  that  man  did  is  what  you 
want  to  do. 

GEORGE.  I  should  deserve  all  those  names  and  worse 
still,  if  I  were  to  be  married  with  the  knowledge  that 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  203 

my  marriage  would  bring  about  such  horrors.  But  I 
do  not  believe  that  it  would.  You  and  your  masters 
are  specialists.  Consequently  you  fix  the  whole  of  your 
attention  on  the  subject  of  your  studies,  and  you  think 
that  these  dreadful,  exceptional  cases  never  have  enough 
light  thrown  on  them.  They  exercise  a  sort  of  fascina- 
tion over  you. 

DOCTOR.     I  know  that  argument. 

GEORGE.  Let  me  go  on,  I  beg.  You  have  told  me 
that  one  man  in  every  seven  is  a  syphilitic,  and  further 
that  there  are  a  hundred  thousand  such  men  going  about 
the  streets  of  Paris  in  perfect  health. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  the  fact  that  there  are  a  hundred  thou- 
sand who  are  not  for  the  moment  visibly  affected  by 
their  complaint.'  But  thousands  have  passed  through 
our  hospitals,  victims  to  the  most  frightful  ravages 
that  our  poor  bodies  can  endure.  You  do  not  see 
them:  they  do  not  exist  for  you.  Again,  if  it  were 
only  yourself  who  was  in  question,  you  might  take  that 
line  well  enough.  But  what  I  affirm,  and  repeat  with  all 
the  strength  of  my  conviction,  is  that  you  have  no  right 
to  expose  a  human  being  to  this  appalling  chance.  The 
chance  is  rare,  I  know:  I  know  still  better  how  terrible 
it  is.  What  have  you  to  say  now? 

GEORGE.  Nothing.  I  suppose  you  are  right.  I 
don't  know  what  to  think. 

DOCTOR.  Is  it  as  if  I  were  forbidding  you  ever  to 
marry  when  I  forbid  you  to  marry  now?  Is  it  as  if  I 
were  telling  you  that  you  will  never  be  cured?  On  the 
contrary,  I  give  you  every  hope.  Only  I  ask  a  delay 
of  three  or  four  years,  because  in  that  time  I  shall  be 
able  to  ascertain  whether  you  are  one  of  those  unhappy 
wretches  for  whom  there  is  no  hope,  and  because  during 
that  time  you  will  be  a  source  of  danger  to  your  wife 
and  children.  The  children:  I  have  not  spoken  to  you 
about  them.  \Very  gently  and  persuasively]  Come, 


204  Damaged  Goods  Act  I 

my  dear  sir,  you  are  too  young  and  too  generous  to  be 
insensible  to  pity.  There  are  things  that  cannot  fail  to 
move  you:  it  is  incredible  that  I  should  not  be  able 
to  touch  or  to  convince  you.  Indeed,  I  feel  most  deeply 
for  you;  but  on  that  account  I  implore  you  all  the  more 
earnestly  to  consider  what  I  say.  You  have  admitted 
you  have  no  right  to  expose  your  wife  to  such  torture: 
but  there  is  not  only  your  wife  —  there  are  her  children, 
your  children,  whom  you  may  contaminate,  too.  For 
the  moment  I  will  not  think  of  you  or  of  her:  it  is  in 
the  name  of  those  innocent  little  ones  that  I  appeal  to 
you;  it  is  the  future  of  the  race  that  I  am  defending. 
Listen  to  me.  Of  the  twenty  marriages  I  spoke  of  only 
fifteen  produced  children.  They  produced  twenty-eight. 
Do  you  know  how  many  of  them  survived  ?  Three :  three 
out  of  twenty-eight.  Above  all  else  syphilis  is  a  child- 
murderer.  Ah,  yes  !  Every  year  produces  a  fresh  massa- 
cre of  the  innocents.  Herod  still  reigns  in  France  and 
all  the  world  over.  And  though  it  is  my  business  to 
preserve  life,  I  tell  you  that  those  who  die  are  the 
lucky  ones.  If  you  want  to  see  the  children  of  syphilitic 
parents,  go  round  the  children's  hospitals.  We  know 
the  type:  it  has  become  classical.  Any  doctor  can 
pick  them  out  from  the  rest;  little  creatures  old  from 
their  birth,  stamped  with  the  marks  of  every  human 
infirmity  and  decay.  You  will  find  children  with  every 
kind  of  affliction:  hump-backed,  deformed,  club-footed, 
hare-lipped,  ricketty,  with  heads  too  big  and  bodies  too 
small,  with  congenital  hip-disease.  A  large  proportion 
of  all  these  are  the  victims  of  parents  who  were  married 
in  ignorance  of  what  you  now  know.  If  I  could,  I 
would  cry  it  aloud  from  the  house-tops.  [A  slight 
pause~\  I  have  told  you  all  this  without  the  slightest 
exaggeration.  Think  it  over.  Weigh  the  pro  and  the 
con:  tot  up  the  sum  of  possible  suffering  and  certain 
misery.  But  remember  that  on  the  one  side  is  your 


Act  I  Damaged  Goods  205 

own  suffering  —  and  on  the  other  the  suffering  of  other 
people.  Remember  that.  Distrust  yourself. 

GEORGE.  Very  well.  I  give  in.  I  will  not  be  mar- 
ried. I  will  invent  some  excuse.  I  will  get  it  put  off 
for  six  months.  More  than  that  is  impossible. 

DOCTOR.    I  must  have  three  years  at  least,  if  not  four. 

GEORGE.  No,  no !  For  pity's  sake !  You  can  cure  me 
before  that. 

DOCTOR.    No,  no,  no ! 

GEORGE.  Yes,  you  can.  I  implore  you.  Science 
can  do  everything. 

DOCTOR.  Science  is  not  God  Almighty.  The  day  of 
miracles  is  past. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  you  could  if  you  wanted  to.  I  know 
you  could.  Invent  something,  discover  something !  Try 
some  new  treatment  on  me.  Double  the  doses !  Give 
me  ten  times  the  ordinary  ones,  if  you  like !  I  '11  stand 
anything,  absolutely !  Only  there  must  be  some  way  of 
curing  me  in  six  months.  Look  here,  I  can't  be  respon- 
sible for  myself  after  that.  For  the  sake  of  my  wife 
and  her  children,  do  something. 

DOCTOR.    Nonsense ! 

GEORGE.  If  only  you  '11  cure  me,  I  don't  know  what 
I  won't  do  for  you.  I  '11  be  grateful  to  you  all  my  life. 
I  '11  give  you  half  my  fortune.  For  God's  sake,  do  some- 
thing for  me ! 

DOCTOR.  You  want  me  to  do  more  for  you  than  for 
all  the  rest  ? 

GEORGE.     Yes. 

DOCTOR.  Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  everyone  of  our 
patients,  whether  he  is  the  richest  man  in  the  land  or 
the  poorest,  has  everything  done  for  him  that  we  can 
do.  We  have  no  secrets  in  reserve  for  the  rich  or  for 
people  who  are  in  a  hurry  to  be  cured. 

GEORGE.     Good-bye,  doctor. 

DOCTOR.     Good-day. 


ACT    II 

George's  study.  To  the  left  a  window.  In  front  of 
the  window  a  desk  of  moderate  size,  facing  away  from 
the  audience,  and  a  writing-chair.  On  the  desk  a  tele- 
phone. To  the  right  of  the  desk  an  arm-chair,  a  small 
table  with  a  work-box  and  embroidery,  and  between  the 
window  and  the  footlights  a  deep  easy-chair.  At  the 
back  a  dainty  bookcase,  and  in  front  of  it  a  pretty  table 
with  flowers.  At  the  back,  to  the  right,  a  door,  and, 
nearer,  a  piano  and  a  music-stool.  To  the  left  another 
door.  Two  small  chairs. 

Henriette  is  sitting  by  the  small  table  and  working 
at  a  baby's  cap.  After  a  moment  she  holds  it  up  on  her 
hand. 

HENRIETTE.  Another  little  cap  to  send  to  nurse. 
How  sweet  my  little  Germaine  will  look  in  it !  Come, 
sweetheart,  laugh  at  mother !  Oh,  my  love !  [She 
kisses  the  cap  and  goes  on  working]. 

George  enters  at  the  back. 

GEORGE  [opening  the  door  and  taking  off  his  coat  in 
the  hall'}  Hullo!  Are  you  there?  Are  you  there?  Ha, 
ha,  ha! 

HENRIETTE  [rising  gaily]  Oh,  you  know  I  recog- 
nized your  voice. 

GEORGE.  What  a  story!  [Kissing  her]  Poor  little 
darling !  —  was  she  taken  in  ?  —  poor  little  woman !  Ha, 
ha,  ha! 

HENRIETTE  [laughing  too]     Don't  laugh  like  that! 

GEORGE.      "  Hullo !     Hullo !     Madame    George    Du- 
206 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  207 

pont?  "  [Imitating  a  woman's  timid  voice]  "  Yes,  yes; 
I  am  here !  "  I  could  feel  you  blushing  at  the  end  of  the 
wire. 

HENRIETTE  [laughing]  I  did  n't  say  "  I  am  here  "  in 
that  voice.  I  simply  answered  "  Yes." 

GEORGE.  "  Hullo !  Madame  George  Dupont.  Is 
George  there?  [Laughing]  You  were  taken  in!  You 
can't  say  you  weren't!  [In  the  woman's  voice] 
"  George  is  out.  Who  is  it  speaking  to  me?  "  I  could 
hardly  keep  it  up.  "  Me  —  Gustave."  You  thought  it 
was,  too. 

HENRIETTE.  What  is  there  astonishing  in  your  friend 
Gustave  telephoning? 

GEORGE.  And  when  I  added  [imitating  -Gustave's 
voice]  "  How  are  you  this  morning,  dearest?  "  you  gave 
a  "What?"  all  flustered,  like  that:  "What?" 

HENRIETTE.     Yes;   but  then  I  guessed  it  was  you. 

GEORGE.  I  went  into  fits.  What  a  lark!  [He  sits 
down  in  front  of  her  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  close  to 
the  fireplace  and  watches  her  happily]. 

HENRIETTE  [sitting  down  and  returning  his  glance] 
What  a  funny  little  fellow  you  are ! 

GEORGE.     Me? 

HENRIETTE  [gaily]  Do  you  think  I  don't  under- 
stand you,  after  knowing  you  for  fifteen  years  and  being 
married  to  you  a  twelvemonth? 

GEORGE  [curious]  Ah,  well !  go  on.  Say  what  you 
think  of  me. 

HENRIETTE.  To  begin  with,  you  're  anxious.  Then 
you're  jealous.  And  suspicious.  You  spend  all  your 
time  in  making  a  tangle  of  things  and  then  inventing 
ingenious  ways  of  getting  out  of  it. 

GEORGE  [happy  to  hear  himself  talked  about]  So  that 's 
what  you  think  of  me?  Go  on,  let  us  have  some 
more. 

HENRIETTE.     Isn't  it  true? 


208  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

GEORGE  [admitting  it  with  a  laugh']     Well? 

HENRIETTE.  Was  n't  it  a  trap  that  you  set  for  me 
this  morning? 

GEORGE  [in  the  same  tone}     No. 

HENRIETTE.  Yes;  you  wanted  to  be  sure  that  I  had 
not  gone  out.  You  asked  me  not  to  go  to  the  Louvre 
to-day. 

GEORGE  [innocently']     So  I  did. 

HENRIETTE.  See  how  suspicious  you  are,  even  of 
me. 

GEORGE.    No;   not  of  you. 

HENRIETTE.  Yes,  you  are.  But  you  have  always 
been,  so  I  don't  mind.  And  then  I  know  at  the  bottom 
you  feel  things  so  keenly  that  it  makes  you  rather 
afraid. 

GEORGE  [seriously]  I  was  laughed  at  so  much  when 
I  was  a  boy. 

HENRIETTE  [gaily]  Besides,  perhaps  you  have  rea- 
sons for  not  having  too  much  confidence  in  men's  friend- 
ships with  their  friends'  wives.  Gay  deceiver ! 

GEORGE  [laughing]  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
mean  by  that. 

HENRIETTE.  Suppose  I  had  thought  it  was  Gustave 
and  answered:  "  Very  well,  thanks.  How  are  you, 
darling?  " 

GEORGE  [laughing]  Well,  it  is  a  trick  that  I  should  n't 
like  to  try  on  everyone.  [Changing  the  conversation] 
By  the  way,  as  I  came  in',  Justin  spoke  to  me. 

HENRIETTE.    Well? 

GEORGE.     He  says  he  wants  a  rise. 

HENRIETTE.     He  has  chosen  a  likely  moment. 

GEORGE.  Has  n't  he?  I  asked  him  if  the  sale  of  my 
cigars  was  not  enough  for  him. 

HENRIETTE.     How  did  he  take  that? 

GEORGE.  He  lost  his  temper  and  gave  warning. 
This  time  I  took  him  at  his  word.  He  's  simply  furious. 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  209 

HENRIETTE.    Good. 

GEORGE.  He  '11  go  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and  we 
shall  be  well  rid  of  him.  Mother  will  be  delighted.  I 
say,  she  has  n't  wired,  has  she  ? 

HENRIETTE.     No. 

GEORGE.     Then  she  's  not  coming  back  till  to-morrow. 

HENRIETTE.  If  she  had  her  way,  she  would  never 
leave  our  little  girl. 

GEORGE.     You  're  not  going  to  be  jealous,  are  you? 

HENRIETTE.  I  'm  a  little  anxious.  Still,  if  there  had 
been  anything  the  matter,  I  know  your  mother  would 
have  telegraphed  to  us. 

GEORGE.  We  agreed  that  she  should,  if  there  was 
anything  since  yesterday. 

HENRIETTE.  Perhaps  after  all  we  should  have  done 
better  to  keep  baby  with  us. 

GEORGE.     Oh,  are  you  going  to  begin  again? 

HENRIETTE.  No,  no.  Don't  scold.  I  know  the  air  of 
Paris  did  n't  suit  her. 

GEORGE.  You  still  think  that  the  dust  of  my  papers 
was  better  for  her  than  the  air  of  the  country? 

HENRIETTE  [laughing]     No;   I  don't. 

GEORGE.  Of  course,  there  is  the  square,  with  the  smell 
of  fried  fish  and  all  the  soldiers. 

HENRIETTE.    Don't  tease.    I  know  you  are  right. 

GEORGE.  Aha !  I  'm  glad  you  admit  that  for  once  at 
least. 

HENRIETTE.  Besides,  nurse  takes  good  care  of  her. 
She  is  a  good  girl. 

GEORGE.  And  how  proud  she  is  to  nurse  the  grand- 
daughter of  her  deputy. 

HENRIETTE.  Father  is  not  deputy  for  that  district. 
All  the  same  — 

GEORGE.  All  the  same  he  is  deputy  for  the  department. 

HENRIETTE.     Yes;   he  is. 

GEORGE.     Can't  you  hear  her  talking  to  her  friends? 


210  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

[Imitating  the  nurse's  voice}  "  Have  n't  I  had  a  bit  of 
luck,  neither  ?  Yes,  ma'am ;  she  's  our  deputy's  daugh- 
ter's daughter,  she  is.  She  's  as  fat  as  a  calf,  the  little 
duck;  and  that  clever  with  it,  she  understands  every- 
thing. That 's  not  a  bit  of  luck,  neither,  is  n't  it?  " 

HENRIETTE  [laughing]  You  great  silly !  She  does  n't 
talk  like  that  at  all. 

GEORGE.  Why  not  say  at  once  that  I  can't  do  imita- 
tions ? 

HENRIETTE.     Now  I  did  n't  say  that. 

GEORGE.  As  if  mother  would  have  engaged  nurse  for 
us  if  she  had  not  been  absolutely  certain  that  baby  would 
be  well  looked  after.  Besides,  she  goes  down  to  see  her 
every  week,  and  she  would  have  brought  her  back 
already  — 

HENRIETTE.    Twice  a  week,  sometimes. 

GEORGE.    Yes. 

HENRIETTE.  Ah,  our  little  Germaine  knows  what  it  is 
to  have  a  granny  who  dotes  on  her. 

GEORGE.     Doesn't  she,  though? 

HENRIETTE.  Your  mother  is  so  good.  You  know  I 
adore  her,  too. 

GEORGE.     Runs  in  the  family ! 

HENRIETTE.  Do  you  know,  the  last  time  we  went 
down  there  with  her  —  you  had  gone  out  somewhere  or 
other  — 

GEORGE.    To  see  that  old  sixteenth  century  chest. 

HENRIETTS  [laughing]  Of  course,  your  wonderful 
chest. 

GEORGE.    Well,  what  were  you  going  to  say? 

HENRIETTE.  You  were  out,  and  nurse  had  gone  to 
mass,  I  think. 

GEORGE.    Or  to  have  a  drink.    Go  on. 

HENRIETTE.  I  was  in  the  little  room,  and  your  mother 
thought  she  was  alone  with  Germaine.  But  I  could  hear 
her:  she  was  telling  baby  all  sorts  of  sweet  little  things 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  211 

—  silly  little  things,  but  so  sweet  that  I  felt  like  laugh- 
ing and  crying  at  the  same  moment. 

GEORGE.  Did  n't  she  call  her  "  my  own  little 
Saviour  "  ? 

HENRIETTE.     Why,  were  you  listening? 

GEORGE.  No ;  but  that 's  what  she  used  to  call  me 
once  on  a  time. 

HENRIETTE.  It  was  that  day  she  said  she  was  sure 
baby  had  recognized  her  and  laughed  at  her. 

GEORGE.  One  day,  too,  I  went  into  mother's  room 
here.  The  door  was  ajar,  so  that  she  didn't  hear  me 
come  in;  and  I  found  her  looking  at  one  of  the  little 
christening  slippers  she  wanted  baby  to  have.  You 
know. 

HENRIETTE.    Oh,  yes. 

GEORGE.    And  then  she  took  it  up  and  kissed  it. 

HENRIETTE.    What  did  you  say  to  her? 

GEORGE.  Nothing.  I  went  out  as  softly  as  I  could 
and  blew  a  kiss  to  her  from  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

HENRIETTE.  When  nurse's  letter  came  the  other  day, 
it  did  n't  take  her  long  to  get  ready  and  catch  the  8.59. 

GEORGE.    However,  there  was  n't  anything  the  matter. 

HENRIETTE.  No;  but  still  perhaps  she  was  right. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  gone  with  her. 

GEORGE.  Poor  innocent  little  Henriette !  You  believe 
everything  you  are  told.  Now  I  saw  at  once  what  was 
up.  The  nurse  simply  wanted  to  humbug  us  into  raising 
her  screw.  I  bet  she  did.  Look  here.  Will  you  bet  me 
she  did  n't  ?  Come,  what  will  you  have  ?  Look  here. 
I  bet  you  that  lovely  necklace  —  you  know,  the  one  with 
the  big  pearl. 

HENRIETTE.  No;  I  should  be  too  much  afraid  of 
winning. 

GEORGE  [laughing]  Silly!  I  believe  you  think  I 
don't  care  for  baby  as  much  as  you  do.  Why,  you  don't 
even  know  how  old  she  is !  No,  no,  —  exactly !  Let 's  see. 


212  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

Aha!  Ninety-one  days  and  eight  hours,  there!  [He 
laughs].  Ah,  when  she  can  get  on  by  herself,  then  we  '11 
have  her  back  with  us.  Six  months  more  to  wait. 

HENRIETTE.  Six  months  is  a  long  time  to  wait.  When 
I  think  that  if  you  had  not  put  off  our  marriage  for  six 
months,  we  should  have  her  back  now! 

GEORGE.  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again  that 
I  only  did  what  was  right.  Just  consider,  how  could 
I  marry  when  the  doctor  told  me  I  had  traces  of 
consumption  ? 

HENRIETTE.  Your  doctor  is  a  donkey.  As  if  you 
looked  like  a  consumptive ! 

GEORGE.  Generally  speaking,  doctors  are  a  bit  that 
way,  I  grant. 

HENRIETTE.  And  you  actually  wanted  to  wait  three 
or  four  years. 

GEORGE.  Yes ;  to  be  quite  certain  I  had  nothing 
wrong  with  my  lungs. 

HENRIETTE.  You  call  me  innocent,  me!  And  here 
were  you,  just  because  a  doctor  — 

GEORGE.  But  you  know  it  seems  that  I  really  had  the 
beginning  of  some  bronchial  trouble.  I  used  to  feel 
something  when  I  breathed  rather  hard  —  like  that,  only 
a  little  harder.  There,  that 's  it.  There  was  a  sort  of 
heaviness  each  side  of  my  chest. 

HENRIETTE.  It  was  n't  anything  to  put  off  our  mar- 
riage for. 

GEORGE  [getting  up]  Yes,  yes;  I  assure  you  I  was 
right.  I  should  have  been  wrong  to  expose  you  to  the 
chance  of  having  a  consumptive  husband.  No;  I  'm  not 
at  all  sorry  we  waited.  Still,  those  specialists  —  I  can 
afford  to  laugh  at  them  now.  If  I  knew  someone  now 
who  was  ill,  I  should  tell  him :  "  My  dear  chap,  those 
bigwigs  at  forty  francs  a  consultation  —  well,  just  don't 
you  consult  them,  you  know !  " 

HENRIETTE.    That  one  wanted  four  years  to  cure  you ! 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  213 

GEORGE.  Hang  it,  doctors  are  only  men.  After  all, 
they  must  live;  and  when  their  consultations  are  forty 
francs  apiece,  why,  the  more  the  merrier. 

HENRIETTE.  And  some  quite  unknown  little  doctor 
cured  you  in  three  months  ! 

GEORGE.  Yes ;  he  was  quite  unknown.  The  odd  thing 
is  I  have  absolutely  forgotten  his  address.  I  found  it  in 
the  paper,  I  remember.  I  know  vaguely  that  it  was 
somewhere  near  the  Halles ;  but  if  I  was  to  have  my 
head  chopped  off  for  it,  I  could  n't  find  it  again.  Idi- 
otic, is  n't  it  ? 

HENRIETTE.  Consequently,  Germaine  is  six  months 
less  old  than  she  ought  to  be. 

GEORGE.  What  of  that?  We  shall  keep  her  so  much 
the  longer.  She  will  be  married  six  months  later,  that 's 
all. 

HENRIETTE.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it.  It 's  odious  to 
think  even  now  that  we  shall  lose  her  some  day. 

GEORGE.  Ah !  I  can  see  myself  going  up  the  steps  of 
the  Madeleine  with  her  on  my  arm. 

HENRIETTE.     Why  the  Madeleine? 

GEORGE.  I  don't  know.  She  '11  have  on  a  great  white 
veil  and  I  shall  have  an  order  in  my  buttonhole. 

HENRIETTE.  Indeed !  Pray  what  will  you  have  done 
to  get  an  order? 

GEORGE.  I  don't  know,  but  I  shall  have  one.  Say 
what  you  like,  I  shall.  What  a  glorious  crowd  there  '11 
be! 

HENRIETTE.     That 's  all  in  the  dim,  distant  future. 

GEORGE.    Ah,  yes. 

HENRIETTE.  Yes,  happily.  [Getting  wp]  Well,  do 
you  mind  if  I  go  and  pay  my  visits  now  ? 

GEORGE.  Run  along,  run  along.  I  shall  work  hard 
while  you  are  out.  Look  at  all  these  papers !  I  shall  be 
up  to  my  eyes  in  them  before  you  're  downstairs.  Good- 
bye. 


214  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

HENRIETTE.  Good-bye.  [She  kisses  him  and  goes 
out  at  the  back  by  the  right]. 

George  lights  a  cigarette,  looks  at  himself  in  the 
glass,  and  throws  himself  into  the  easy-chair  to  the 
left,  humming  a  tune.  By  way  of  being  more  com- 
fortable, he  moves  away  the  writing-chair  and  puts 
his  feet  on  the  desk,  smoking  and  humming  in  perfect 
contentment.  Madame  Dupont  comes  in  by  the  door  on 
the  left. 

GEORGE  [getting  up]  Hullo!  Why,  mother!  We 
had  no  wire,  so  we  did  n't  expect  you  till  to-morrow. 
Henriette  has  just  gone  out.  I  can  call  her  back. 

MME.  DUPONT.  No;  I  did  not  want  Henriette  to  be 
here  when  I  came. 

GEORGE.     What's  the  matter? 

The  conversation  that  follows  is  broken  by  long 
silences. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  have  brought  back  the  child  and 
the  nurse. 

GEORGE.     Is  baby  ill? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

GEORGE.    What 's  wrong  with  her  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Nothing  serious ;  at  least  for  the 
moment. 

GEORGE.    We  must  send  for  the  doctor. 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  have  just  come  from  the  doctor's. 

GEORGE.  Good.  I  'm  not  going  out.  I  '11  wait  for 
him. 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  have  seen  him. 

GEORGE.    Ah,  you  found  him  in? 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  telegraphed  to  him  from  the 
country.  I  took  the  child  to  see  him. 

GEORGE.     It  was  so  urgent  as  that? 

MME.  DUPONT.  After  what  the  nurse's  doctor  had 
told  me,  I  wished  to  be  reassured  immediately. 

GEORGE.     And  after  all  there  is  nothing  serious? 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  215 

MME.  DUPONT.     For  the  moment. 

GEORGE.  When  you  got  down  there,  how  did  you  find 
baby? 

MME.  DUPONT.  Fairly  well,  but  I  sent  for  the  doctor 
at  once. 

GEORGE.    What  did  he  say? 

MME.  DUPONT.  That  you  must  make  a  change;  that 
the  child  must  be  brought  up  on  the  bottle. 

GEORGE.     What  an  extraordinary  idea. 

MME.  DUPONT.  He  told  me  that  what  she  was  suffer- 
ing from  might  become  very  serious.  So  without  saying 
anything  to  nurse,  I  made  her  come  with  me  and  we  took 
the  train  back. 

GEORGE.    Well,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  child? 

MME.  DUPONT  [after  a  thoughtful  pause"]  I  do  not 
know. 

GEORGE.     Didn't  you  ask  him? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

GEORGE  [beginning  to  be  anxious]     Well? 
A  silence. 

MME.  DUPONT.    He  replied  evasively. 

GEORGE  [tonelessly]  He  probably  did  not  know  him- 
self. 

MME.  DUPONT  [after  a  silence']     Probably. 

During  what  follows  they  avoid  looking  at  one  another. 

GEORGE.     But  our  own  doctor,  didn't  he  say — ? 

MME.  DUPONT.     It  was  not  to  him  that  I  went. 

GEORGE.  Ah!  [J  very  long  silence.  Then  lower] 
Why? 

MME.  DUPONT.  The  nurse's  doctor  had  so  terrified 
me. 

GEORGE.    Seriously  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.     Yes ;   it  is  a  disease  —  [Silence] 

GEORGE  [in  anguish]     Well? 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  asked  him  if  the  matter  was  too 
serious  for  our  own  doctor  to  deal  with. 


216  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

GEORGE.    What  did  he  answer? 

MME.  DUPONT.  That  if  we  had  the  means  it  would 
be  preferable  to  see  a  specialist. 

GEORGE  [trying  to  pull  himself  together]  And  — 
where  did  he  send  you  ? 

MME.  DUPONT  [handing  him  a  visiting  card]     There. 

GEORGE.     He  sent  you  to  that  doctor? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes.    Do  you  know  him? 

GEORGE.  No  —  yes  —  I  think  I  have  met  him  —  I 
don't  know.  [Very  low]  My  God! 

MME.  DUPONT  [after  a  silence]  He  is  coming  to 
speak  to  you. 

GEORGE  [scarcely  daring  to  pronounce  the  words] 
Then  is  he  anxious? 

MME.  DUPONT.    No.    He  wants  to  speak  to  you. 

GEORGE.    He  wants  to  speak  to  me  ? 

MME.  DUPONT.    Yes. 

GEORGE  [resigning  himself]     Very  well. 

MME.  DUPONT.  When  he  saw  the  nurse,  whom  I  had 
left  in  the  waiting  room,  he  called  me  back  and  said: 
"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  continue  attending  on  this 
child  unless  I  can  see  its  father  and  speak  to  him  at 
once."  I  answered  "  Very  well,"  and  gave  him  your 
address.  He  will  not  be  long. 

GEORGE  [to  himself  in  a  low  voice]  My  poor  little 
child! 

MME.  DUPONT  [looking  at  him]  Yes;  she  is  a  poor 
little  child. 

GEORGE  [after  a  long  silence]     Mother  — 

MME.  DUPONT  [hearing  the  door  opened]  Hush ! 
[A  maid  comes  in  and  speaks  to  her.  To  George]  It  is 
he!  [To  the  maid]  Show  him  in.  [To  George]  I 
shall  be  there  if  you  want  me. 

She  goes  out  by  the  left.     The  doctor  enters  by  the  right. 

DOCTOR  [to  the  maid]  You  will  let  me  know  here 
when  the  child  wakes  up,  will  you  not? 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  217 

MAID.    Yes,  sir. 

She  goes  out. 

GEORGE  [with  the  greatest  emotion]  Good-day,  doc- 
tor: you  don't  recognize  me? 

DOCTOR  [simply:  more  discouraged  than  angry]  You! 
—  it  is  you !  You  married  and  had  a  child  after  all  I 
said  to  you?  [Almost  to  himself]  Scoundrel! 

GEORGE.    Let  me  explain. 

DOCTOR.  I  can  listen  to  no  explanation  of  what  you 
have  done. 

A  silence. 

GEORGE  [imploring  him]  You  will  look  after  my  little 
girl  all  the  same,  won't  you? 

DOCTOR  [shrugging  his  shoulders.    Low]     Fool ! 

GEORGE  [not  hearing]  I  could  only  get  my  marriage 
put  off  six  months. 

DOCTOR.  Enough,  enough!  That  is  not  my  business. 
I  was  wrong  even  to  show  you  my  indignation.  I  should 
have  left  you  to  judge  yourself.  I  am  here  only  con- 
cerned with  the  present  and  the  future,  with  the  child 
and  with  the  nurse. 

GEORGE.     She  is  not  in  danger? 

DOCTOR.  The  nurse  is  in  danger  of  being  contami- 
nated. 

GEORGE.     No;  but  —  my  child? 

DOCTOR.  For  the  moment  the  symptoms  are  not  dis- 
quieting. 

GEORGE.  Thank  you.  [More  easily]  About  the 
nurse  —  you  were  saying  —  Do  you  mind  if  I  call  my 
mother?  She  knows  more  about  these  things  than  I  do. 

DOCTOR.     As  you  please. 

GEORGE  [going  to  the  door  and  coming  back  much 
moved]  There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask  you. 
Could  you  contrive  that  no  one  —  my  wife  —  should 
know  what  has  happened?  If  my  poor  wife  knew  that 
it  was  I  who  was  the  cause  —  It  is  for  her  sake  that  I 
beg  you.  She  is  not  to  blame. 


218  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

DOCTOR.  I  promise  you  that  I  will  do  everything  in 
my  power  to  save  her  from  learning  the  real  nature  of 
the  child's  illness. 

GEORGE.     Oh,  thank  you!    Thank  you! 

DOCTOR.  You  need  not.  If  I  tell  lies,  it  will  be  for 
her  sake  and  not  for  yours. 

GEORGE.    And  my  mother? 

DOCTOR.    Your  mother  knows  the  truth. 

GEORGE.    But  — 

DOCTOR.  Please,  please.  We  have  many  very  serious 
matters  to  discuss. 

George  goes  to  the  door  and  brings  in  his  mother. 
She  bows  to  the  doctor,  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  be  seated 
in  the  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace,  and  sits  down  herself 
on  the  chair  near  the  little  table.  George  takes  a  seat 
to  the  left  in  front  of  the  desk. 

DOCTOR.  I  have  written  a  prescription  for  the  child 
which  will,  I  hope,  improve  its  condition  and  prevent 
any  fresh  disorders.  But  my  duty,  and  yours,  does  not 
stop  there.  If  it  is  not  too  late,  the  health  of  the  nurse 
must  be  protected. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Tell  us  what  we  must  do. 

DOCTOR.    She  must  stop  giving  milk  to  the  child. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  mean  that  we  must  change  the 
nurse  ? 

DOCTOR.  No.  I  mean  that  the  child  cannot  continue 
to  be  fed  at  the  breast  either  by  this  nurse  or  by  any 
healthy  nurse. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Why? 

DOCTOR.  Because  the  child  would  communicate  its 
complaint  to  the  person  who  gave  it  milk. 

MME.  DUPONT.  But,  doctor,  if  the  baby  is  brought  up 
on  the  bottle  it  will  die. 

GEORGE  [breaking  into  sobs]  Oh,  my  poor  little  girl! 
Oh,  my  God !  it 's  me !  Oh !  oh ! 

DOCTOR.     Careful  treatment,  with  sterilized  milk  — 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  219 

MME.  DUPONT.  That  may  succeed  with  healthy  chil- 
dren, but  at  the  age  of  three  months  a  sickly  child  such 
as  ours  cannot  be  fed  by  hand.  Such  a  child  has  all  the 
more  need  of  being  fed  at  the  breast.  That  is  true? 

DOCTOR.     Yes ;   but  — 

MME.  DUPONT.  In  that  case  you  will  realize  that 
between  the  life  of  the  child  and  the  health  of  a  nurse 
I  have  no  choice. 

GEORGE  [sobbing']     Oh!    oh!  oh! 

DOCTOR.  Your  affection  leads  you  to  express  an  in- 
credible sentiment.  But  it  is  not  for  you  to  choose.  I 
shall  forbid  the  child  to  be  brought  up  at  the  breast.  The 
health  of  this  woman  does  not  belong  to  you. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Nor  the  life  of  our  child  to  you.  If 
there  is  one  way  to  save  its  life,  it  is  to  give  it  every  pos- 
sible attention,  and  you  want  me  to  treat  it  in  a  way  that 
you  doctors  condemn  even  for  healthy  children.  My  little 
one !  You  think  I  will  let  her  die  like  that !  Oh,  I  shall 
take  good  care  she  does  not !  Neglect  the  one  single  thing 
that  can  save  her !  It  would  be  criminal !  As  for  the 
nurse,  we  will  indemnify  her.  We  will  do  everything  in 
our  power,  everything  but  that.  No,  no,  no !  Whatever 
can  be  done  for  our  baby  shall  be  done,  cost  what  it  may. 
But  that  —  You  don't  consider  what  you  are  asking. 
It  would  be  as  if  I  killed  my  child.  [Bursting  into 
tears]  Oh,  my  little  angel,  my  own  little  Saviour ! 

George  has  not  stopped  sobbing  since  he  first  began. 
At  his  mother's  last  words  his  sobs  become  almost  cries. 
His  anguish  is  pitiable  to  see. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  oh,  oh !  My  little  child !  My  little 
child !  Oh,  oh !  [In  an  undertone]  Oh,  what  a  scoun- 
drel I  am  !  What  a  criminal ! 

DOCTOR.  Calm  yourself,  madam,  I  beg.  You  will  not 
improve  matters  in  this  way.  Try  to  consider  them 
coolly. 

MME.  DUPONT.     You  are  right.     I  beg  your  pardon. 


220  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

But  if  you  knew  how  much  this  child  is  to  me.  I  lost  one 
at  the  same  age.  I  am  old  and  widowed  —  I  did  not 
expect  to  live  to  see  my  grandchildren.  You  are  right. 
George,  be  calm  —  we  will  show  our  love  by  being  calm. 
Now  then,  we  will  talk  seriously  and  coldly.  But  I  warn 
you  that  you  will  not  succeed  in  making  me  consent  to 
any  but  the  very  best  conditions  for  the  child.  I  shall 
not  let  her  be  killed  by  being  taken  from  the  breast. 

DOCTOR.  This  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  found  my- 
self in  this  situation,  and  I  must  begin  by  telling  you 
that  parents  who  have  refused  to  be  guided  by  my 
advice  have  invariably  repented  of  it  most  bitterly. 

MME.  DUPONT.  The  only  thing  of  which  I  shall 
repent  — 

DOCTOR.  You  are  evidently  unaware  of  what  the  ra- 
pacity and  malice  of  peasants  such  as  this  nurse  are 
capable,  especially  against  those  of  superior  station.  In 
this  case,  moreover,  her  enmity  would  be  legitimate. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Oh!    What  can  she  do? 

DOCTOR.    She  can  bring  an  action  against  you. 

MME.  DUPONT.  She  is  far  too  stupid  to  think  of  such 
a  thing. 

DOCTOR.    Others  will  put  it  into  her  head. 

MME.  DUPONT.  She  is  too  poor  to  pay  the  expenses 
of  going  to  law. 

DOCTOR.  Then  you  propose  to  profit  by  her  ignorance 
and  her  poverty?  Besides,  she  could  obtain  the  assist- 
ance of  the  court. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Never !     Surely,  never ! 

DOCTOR.  Indeed?  For  my  part  I  know  at  least  ten 
such  cases.  In  every  case  where  the  fact  was  proved, 
judgment  was  given  against  the  parents. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Not  in  a  case  like  this !  Not  where 
the  life  of  a  poor  innocent  little  child  was  at  stake !  You 
must  be  mistaken ! 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  221 

DOCTOR.  Many  of  the  facts  have  been  identical.  I 
can  give  you  the  dates. 

GEORGE  [rising]  I  have  the  law  reports  here.  [He 
takes  a  volume  and  hands  it  to  the  doctor], 

MME.  DUPONT.     It  is  needless. 

DOCTOR  [to  George]  You  can  convince  yourself.  In 
one  or  two  cases  the  parents  have  been  ordered  to  pay 
a  yearly  pension  to  the  nurse;  in  the  others  sums  of 
money  varying  from  three  to  eight  thousand  francs. 

MME.  DUPONT.  If  we  had  to  fight  an  action,  we 
should  retain  the  very  best  lawyer  on  our  side.  Thank 
heaven  we  are  rich  enough.  No  doubt  he  would  make  it 
appear  doubtful  whether  the  child  had  not  caught  this 
disease  from  the  nurse,  rather  than  the  nurse  from  the 
child. 

DOCTOR.  Allow  me  to  point  out  that  such  conduct 
would  be  atrocious. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Oh,  it 'is  a  lawyer's  business  to  do 
such  things.  I  should  not  have  to  say  anything.  In  any 
case  you  may  be  sure  that  he  would  win  our  suit. 

DOCTOR.  And  have  you  considered  the  scandal  that 
would  ensue. 

GEORGE  [turning  to  a  page  in  the  reports]  Here  is 
the  judgment  you  were  speaking  of  —  six  thousand 
francs. 

DOCTOR.  You  can  make  Madame  Dupont  read  it 
afterwards.  Since  you  have  the  reports  there,  kindly 
give  me  the  volume  before  this.  [George  goes  again  to 
the  bookcase.  To  Madame  Dupont]  Have  you  thought 
of  the  scandal? 

GEORGE  [coming  back]  But,  doctor,  allow  me  to  point 
out,  in  reports  of  this  kind  the  names  are  suppressed. 

DOCTOR.    They  are  not  suppressed  in  court. 

GEORGE.    True. 

DOCTOR.  Are  you  sure  that  no  paper  would  publish 
a  full  account  of  the  case? 


222  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

MME.  DUPONT.    Oh,  how  infamous! 

DOCTOR.  You  see  what  a  horrible  scandal  it  would  be 
for  you.  [George  nods]  A  catastrophe,  absolutely. 

GEORGE.  Particularly  for  a  notary  like  me.  [He 
goes  to  get  the  other  volume]. 

MME.  DUPONT.  We  will  prevent  her  from  bringing 
an  action.  We  will  give  her  what  she  wants. 

DOCTOR.  Then  you  will  expose  yourself  to  be  in- 
definitely blackmailed.  I  know  one  family  which  has 
paid  hush-money  of  this  kind  for  twelve  years. 

GEORGE.     We  could  make  her  sign  a  receipt. 

DOCTOR.     In  full  settlement  of  all  claims? 

GEORGE.     Exactly  so.    Here  is  the  volume. 

MME.  DUPONT.  She  would  be  only  too  glad  to  go 
back  to  her  people  with  enough  money  to  buy  a  little 
house  and  a  plot  of  land.  To  a  woman  of  her  position 
it  would  be  wealth. 

The  nurse  comes  in. 

NURSE.     Baby  's  waked  up,  sir. 

DOCTOR.  I  will  come  and  see  her.  [To  Madame  Du- 
pont]  We  will  finish  what  we  were  saying  presently. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Very  well.    Do  you  want  the  nurse  ? 

DOCTOR.    No,  thank  you. 

The  doctor  goes  out. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Nurse,  just  wait  a  minute.  1  want  to 
speak  to  you.  [In  an  undertone  to  her  son]  I  know 
how  we  can  manage.  If  we  warn  her  and  she  agrees  to 
stay,  the  doctor  will  have  nothing  more  to  say;  will  he? 

GEORGE.    I  suppose  not. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  will  promise  her  two  thousand 
francs  when  she  goes  if  she  consents  to  stay  on  as  wet- 
nurse. 

GEORGE.     Is  that  enough,  do  you  think? 

MME.  DUPONT.  At  any  rate  I  will  try.  If  she  hesi- 
tates I  will  make  it  more. 

GEORGE.    All  right. 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  223 

MME.  DUPONT  [turning  to  the  nurse]  Nurse,  you 
know  that  baby  is  a  little  ill? 

NURSE.    Oh,  no,  ma'am. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Indeed  she  is. 

NURSE.  I  've  looked  after  her  as  well  as  possible;  I 
know  I  have,  ma'am. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  do  not  say  you  have  not.  But  she 
is  ill:  the  doctors  say  so. 

NURSE.  That 's  a  fine  story !  As  if  doctors  were  n't 
always  finding  something,  so  that  you  may  n't  think  they 
don't  know  their  business  ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  But  our  doctor  is  a  great  doctor;  and 
you  have  seen  yourself  that  baby  has  little  pimples. 

NURSE.  Oh,  ma'am,  that 's  nothing  but  the  heat  of  her 
blood.  Don't  you  worry  about  it,  I  tell  you  it 's  only  the 
strength  of  her  blood.  It  is  n't  my  fault.  I  've  always 
done  everything  for  her  and  kept  her  that  clean  and 
proper. 

MME.  DUPONT.    No  one  says  that  it  is  your  fault. 

NURSE.  Then  what  are  you  finding  fault  with  me 
about?  Ah,  there  is  n't  anything  the  matter  with  her. 
The  pretty  little  darling,  she  's  a  regular  town  baby  she 
is,  just  a  bit  poorly;  but  she  's  all  right,  I  promise  you. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  tell  you  she  is  ill:  she  has  a  cold 
in  her  head  and  there  are  sores  at  the  back  of  her  throat. 

NURSE.  Then  that 's  because  the  doctor  scratched  her 
with  the  spoon  he  put  into  her  mouth  by  the  wrong  end. 
And  if  she  has  a  little  cold,  I  don't  know  when  she  caught 
it,  I  'm  sure  I  don't:  I  always  keep  her  that  well 
wrapped  up,  she  has  three  thicknesses  of  things  on.  It 
must  have  been  when  you  came  the  time  before  last  and 
opened  all  the  windows  in  the  house. 

MME.  DUPONT.  But  I  tell  you  that  nobody  is  finding 
fault  with  you  at  all. 

NURSE.  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  That 's  all  very  well.  I  'm 
only  a  poor  country  girl. 


224  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  do  you  mean? 

NURSE.     Oh,  that 's  all  very  well,  it  is ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  But  I  have  told  you  over  and  over 
again  that  we  have  no  fault  to  find. 

NURSE  [sticking  to  her  idea]  I  never  expected  any 
unpleasantness  when  I  came  here.  [She  begins  to 
whimper] . 

MME.  DUPONT.  We  have  no  fault  to  find  with  you. 
Only  we  want  to  warn  you,  you  may  catch  the  baby's 
illness  — 

NURSE  [sulkily]  Well,  if  I  do  catch  a  cold,  it  won't 
be  the  first  time  I  Ve  had  to  blow  my  nose,  I  suppose. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Perhaps  you  may  get  her  pimples. 

NURSE  [sneering]  Oh,  ma'am,  we  country  folks 
have  n't  got  nice,  delicate,  white  skins  like  Paris  ladies 
have.  When  you  have  to  work  in  the  fields  all  day, 
rain  or  shine,  you  don't  need  to  plaster  your  face  all 
over  with  cream,  I  can  tell  you.  No  offence  meant, 
but  if  you  want  to  find  an  excuse,  that  is  n't  much  of 
a  one. 

MME.  DUPONT.     What  do  you  mean?     What  excuse? 

NURSE.    Oh,  yes,  I  know. 

MME.  DUPONT.  What  do  you  know? 

NURSE.     I  'm  only  a  poor  country  girl,  I  am. 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  what 
you  mean. 

NURSE.     Oh,   I  know  what  I   mean. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Then  tell  me  what  you  mean. 

NURSE.     Oh,  what 's  the  good? 

MME.  DUPONT.     Tell  me,  please.     I  insist! 

NURSE.     Oh,  very  well  — 

MME.   DUPONT.     Go  on. 

NURSE.  Oh,  all  right.  I  may  be  only  a  poor  coun- 
try girl,  but  I  'm  not  quite  so  stupid  as  that.  I  know 
what  it  is  you  want.  Just  because  master 's  cross  at 
your  having  promised  me  thirty  francs  a  month  more 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  225 

if  I  came  to  Paris.  [Turning  to  George]  Well,  and 
what  do  you  expect  ?  Must  n't  I  have  my  own  little 
boy  looked  after  ?  And  has  n't  his  father  got  to  eat 
and  drink?  We  're  only  poor  country  folks,  we  are. 

GEORGE.  You  're  making  a  mistake,  nurse.  There'  s 
nothing  at  all  the  matter.  My  mother  was  quite  right 
to  promise  you  the  thirty  francs  extra,  and  the  only 
thing  in  my  mind  is  that  she  did  not  promise  you 
enough.  Now  I  have  decided  when  baby  is  old  enough 
to  have  a  dry  nurse  and  you  leave  us,  just  to  show  how 
grateful  we  are,  to  give  you,  er  — 

MME.  DUPONT.  We  shall  make  you  a  present,  you 
understand,  over  and  above  your  wages.  We  shall  give 
you  five  hundred  francs,  or  perhaps  a  thousand.  That 
is,  of  course,  if  baby  is  in  perfectly  good  health. 

NURSE  [stupefied']  You  '11  give  me  five  hundred 
francs  —  for  myself  —  [Struggling  to  understand] 
But  you  have  n't  got  to.  We  did  n't  agree  to  that. 

MME.   DUPONT.     No. 

NURSE   [to  herself]     What's  up,  then? 

MME.  DUPONT.  It  is  simply  because  baby  will  re- 
quire more  attention.  You  will  have  rather  more 
trouble  with  her.  You  will  have  to  give  her  her  medi- 
cine and  so  on.  It  may  be  a  little  difficult  for  you. 

NURSE.  Ah,  I  see.  So  that  you  may  be  sure  I  shall 
look  after  her  well.  You  say  to  yourself:  "  Nurse  has 
an  interest  in  her."  I  see. 

MME.  DUPONT.     That  is  understood,  then? 

NURSE.      Yes,    ma'am. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Very  good.  You  will  not  come 
afterwards  and  complain  of  the  way  we  have  treated 
you.  We  have  warned  you  that  the  child  is  ill  and 
that  you  may  catch  her  illness.  To  make  up  for  that, 
and  because  you  will  have  more  trouble  with  her,  we 
will  give  you  five  hundred  francs  when  your  time  here 
is  over.  That  is  understood? 


226  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

NURSE.     But  you  said  a  thousand  francs,  ma'am. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Very  well;    a  thousand  francs,  then. 

GEORGE  [passing  to  the  right  behind  the  other  two 
and  drawing  his  mother  aside]  It 's  a  pity  that  we 
can't  get  her  to  sign  that. 

MME.  DUPONT  [to  the  nurse]  So  that  there  may  be 
no  misunderstanding  about  the  sum  —  you  see  I  forgot 
just  now  that  I  said  a  thousand  francs  —  we  will 
draw  up  a  little  paper  which  we  shall  sign  on  our 
side  and  you  will  sign  on  your  side. 

NURSE.     Very  good,  ma'am;    I  understand. 
The  doctor  comes  back. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Here  is  the  doctor.  You  may  go, 
nurse;  that  is  all  right. 

NURSE.  Yes,  ma'am.  [To  herself]  What's  up, 
then  ?  A  thousand  francs  ?  What 's  the  matter  with 
the  baby?  Has  she  got  something  bad,  I  wonder? 
[She  passes  to  the  left,  between  the  desk  and  window, 
and  goes  out]. 

DOCTOR.  The  condition  is  unchanged.  There  is 
no  need  for  anxiety.  [He  sits  down  at  the  desk  to 
write  a  prescription], 

MME.  DUPONT.  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  doctor,  that 
you  can  now  devote  yourself  to  the  baby  and  the  nurse 
without  misgiving.  While  you  have  been  away  we 
have  informed  the  nurse  of  the  circumstances,  and 
agreed  with  her  that  she  shall  stay  with  us  in  return 
for  a  certain  sum  of  money. 

DOCTOR.  The  disease  which  the  nurse  will  almost 
infallibly  contract  in  giving  her  milk  to  the  child  is,  I 
fear,  too  serious  to  be  made  the  subject  of  a  bargain, 
however  large  the  sum  of  money.  She  might  be  com- 
pletely crippled,  even  if  she  did  not  die  of  it. 

MME.  DUPONT.     But  she  accepts ! 

DOCTOR.  It  is  not  only  that  she  would  be  rendered 
incapable  of  serving  in  future  as  wet  nurse  without 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  227 

danger  to  the  infants  she  suckled.  The  results  of  the 
disease  to  herself  might  be  inconsiderable;  but  at  the 
same  time,  I  repeat,  they  might,  in  spite  of  everything 
we  could  do,  cast  a  terrible  blight  upon  her  life. 

MME.  DUPONT.  But  I  tell  you  she  accepts !  She  has 
the  right  to  do  what  she  pleases. 

DOCTOR.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  has  the  right  to 
sell  her  own  health,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  has  not  the 
right  to  sell  the  health  of  her  husband  and  of  her  chil- 
dren. If  she  contracts  this  disease,  she  will  almost 
certainly  communicate  it  to  both  of  them;  and,  further, 
the  life  and  health  of  any  children  she  might  after- 
wards have  would  be  gravely  endangered.  You  under- 
stand now  that  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  make  a 
bargain  of  this  kind.  If  the  mischief  is  not  already 
done,  every  effort  must  be  made  to  prevent  it. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  say:  "  If  the  mischief  is  not 
done."  Can  you  not  be  certain? 

DOCTOR.  Not  as  yet.  There  is  a  period  of  five  or 
six  weeks  between  the  moment  of  contracting  the 
disease  and  the  appearance  of  its  first  symptoms. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  think  of  nothing  but  the  nurse. 
You  do  not  think  of  our  poor  little  baby.  What  can 
we  do?  We  cannot  let  her  die! 

GEORGE.     We  can't,  we  can't! 

DOCTOR.  Neither  can  you  endanger  the  life  of  this 
woman. 

MME.  DUPONT.     You  are  not  defending  our  interests ! 

DOCTOR.     I  am  defending  those  of  the  weakest. 

MME.  DUPONT.  If  we  had  called  in  our  own  doctor, 
he  would  have  taken  our  side. 

DOCTOR.  I  doubt  it.  [Rising]  But  there  is  still 
time  to  send  for  him. 

GEORGE.     Mother !     I  beg  you  not  to  go,  doctor. 

MME.  DUPONT  [supplicating  him]  Oh,  don't  aban- 
don us  !  You  can  make  allowances  —  If  you  only  knew 


228  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

what  this  child  was  to  me !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  staved  off 
death  to  wait  for  it.  Have  pity  on  us !  Our  poor  little 
girl !  —  she  is  the  weakest,  surely.  Have  pity  on  her ! 
When  you  saw  her  tiny,  suffering  body,  did  you  not 
feel  any  pity  for  her?  Oh,  I  beseech  you! 

GEORGE.     Doctor,  we  implore  you! 

DOCTOR.  Indeed  I  pity  her  and  I  will  do  everything 
in  my  power  to  save  her.  But  you  must  not  ask  me  to 
sacrifice  the  health  of  a  young  and  strong  woman  to 
that  of  a  sickly  infant.  I  will  be  no  party  to  giving  this 
woman  a  disease  that  would  embitter  the  lives  of  her 
whole  family,  and  almost  certainly  render  her  sterile. 

MME.  DUPONT  [in  a  stifled  voice]  Oh,  are  there  not 
enough  of  these  peasants  in  the  world! 

DOCTOR.      I    beg  your   pardon? 

MME.  DUPONT  [in  the  same  tone]  I  said  that  if  she 
had  no  more  children,  there  would  only  be  the  fewer  to 
be  unhappy. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  useless  for  us  to  continue  this  dis- 
cussion. 

MME.  DUPONT  [rousing  herself]  I  shall  not  take 
your  advice !  I  shall  not  listen  to  you ! 

DOCTOR.  There  is  one  here  already  who  regrets  not 
having  done  so. 

GEORGE.    Yes ;  O,  God,  yes ! 

MME.  DUPONT  [more  and  more  exalted]  I  do  not  care ! 
I  do  not  care  if  I  am  punished  for  it  in  this  world  and 
the  next !  If  it  is  a  crime,  if  it  is  a  sin,  I  accept  all  the 
responsibility,  however  heavy  it  may  be !  Yes,  yes !  If 
it  must  be,  I  will  lose  my  soul  to  save  our  child's  life, 
our  little  one's !  I  know  that  hell  exists  for  the  wicked: 
that  is  one  of  my  profoundest  convictions.  Then  let  God 
judge  me  —  if  I  am  damned,  so  much  the  worse  for  me ! 

DOCTOR.  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  take  that  responsi- 
bility. To  enable  you  to  do  so,  my  consent  would  be 
necessary,  and  I  refuse  it. 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  229 

MME.  DUPONT.     What  do  you  mean? 

DOCTOR.  I  shall  speak  to  the  nurse  and  give  her  the 
fullest  particulars,  which  I  am  convinced  you  have  not 
done. 

MME.  DUPONT.  What!  you,  a  doctor,  would  betray 
family  secrets  entrusted  to  you  in  the  strictest  confidence ! 
Secrets  of  this  kind ! 

DOCTOR.  The  betrayal,  if  it  is  one,  is  forced  on  me 
by  the  law. 

MME.  DUPONT.  The  law !  I  thought  you  were  bound 
to  secrecy? 

DOCTOR  [turning  the  pages  of  the  volume  of  reports] 
Not  in  this  case.  Here  is  a  judgment  given  by  the  court 
at  Dijon:  I  thought  that  I  might  have  to  read  it  to  you. 
[Reading]  "  A  doctor  who  knowingly  omits  to  inform  a 
nurse  of  the  dangers  incurred  by  her  in  giving  milk  to  a 
syphilitic  child  may  be  held  responsible  in  damages  for 
the  results  caused  by  her  ignorance."  You  see  that  the 
law  is  against  you,  as  well  as  your  conscience ;  and  I  may 
add  that,  even  were  it  not  so,  I  should  not  allow  you  to 
be  led  by  your  feelings  into  committing  such  a  crime.  If 
you  do  not  consent  to  have  the  child  fed  by  hand,  I  shall 
either  speak  to  the  nurse  or  give  up  the  case. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  dare  to  threaten  us !  Oh,  you 
know  the  power  that  your  knowledge  gives  you!  You 
know  what  need  we  are  in  of  your  services,  and  that  if  you 
abandon  us  perhaps  our  child  will  die !  And  if  we  give 
way  to  you,  she  will  die  all  the  same!  [Wildly]  O,  my 
God,  my  God,  why  cannot  I  sacrifice  myself?  Oh,  if  only 
my  aged  body  could  take  the  place  of  this  woman's  young 
flesh,  and  my  poor  dry  breasts  give  to  our  child  the  milk 
that  would  save  her  life!  With  what  joy  I  would  give 
myself  up  to  this  disease !  With  what  rapture  I  would 
suffer  the  most  horrible  ravages  that  it  could  inflict  on 
me !  Oh,  if  I  could  but  offer  myself,  without  fear  and 
without  regret! 


230  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

GEORGE   [flings  himself  into  her  arms  with  sobs  and 
cries  of]     Mother !  Mother !   Mother ! 
They  weep. 

DOCTOR  [to  himself,  moved]  Poor  people!  Poor 
people ! 

MME.  DUPONT  [sitting  down  with  an  air  of  resignation] 
Tell  us  what  we  must  do. 

DOCTOR.  Keep  the  nurse  here  as  dry-nurse  so  that  she 
may  not  carry  the  infection  elsewhere.  We  will  feed  the 
child  by  hand,  and  I  beg  you  in  all  sincerity  not  to  ex- 
aggerate the  danger  that  will  result  from  the  change.  I 
have  every  hope  of  restoring  the  baby  to  health  in  a  short 
space  of  time;  and  I  assure  you  that  I  will  use  every 
possible  effort  to  bring  about  a  happy  conclusion.  I  will 
call  again  to-morrow.  Good-day. 

MME.  DUPONT  [without  moving]     Thank  you,  doctor. 

GEORGE  [going  to  the  door  and  shaking  hands]  Thank 
you,  thank  you!  [The  doctor  goes  out.  George  comes 
back  and  goes  to  his  mother  with  outstretched  arms] 
Mother ! 

MME.  DUPONT  [repulsing  him]     Let  me  be. 

GEORGE  [checking  himself]  Are  we  not  unhappy 
enough,  without  hating  one  another? 

MME.  DUPONT.  It  is  God  who  visits  upon  your  child 
the  sins  of  its  father. 

GEORGE  [raising  his  shoulders  gloomily]  You  believe 
that,  when  there  is  not  a  man  alive  so  wicked  and  unjust 
as  to  commit  such  an  act ! 

MME.  DUPONT.    Oh,  I  know  you  believe  in  nothing. 

GEORGE.     Not  in  that  kind  of  God. 

The  nurse,  who  comes  in  by  the  left  soon  after  the 
doctor  has  gone  out,  appears. 

NURSE.  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  've  been  thinking  I 
would  rather  go  away  at  once,  and  only  have  the  five  hun- 
dred francs. 

MME.  DUPONT.  What  do  you  say?  You  want  to  leave 
us? 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  231 

NURSE.    Yes,  ma'am. 

GEORGE.    But  ten  minutes  ago  you  did  n't  want  to. 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  has  happened? 

NURSE.     I  've  been  thinking. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Thinking!    About  what? 

NURSE.  Well,  I  want  to  go  back  to  my  baby  and  my 
husband. 

GEORGE.  But  ten  minutes  ago  —  There  must  be 
something  else. 

MME.  DUPONT.     Evidently  there  is  something  else. 

NURSE.     No,  ma'am. 

MME.  DUPONT.     But  there  must  be ! 

NURSE.  Well,  then,  I  'm  afraid  that  Paris  does  n't 
suit  me. 

MME.  DUPONT.  How  can  you  tell  without  waiting  to 
try? 

NURSE.    I  'd  rather  go  back  home  at  once. 

MME.  DUPONT.    At  least  tell  us  why. 

NURSE.    I  have  told  you.    I  've  been  thinking. 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  about? 

NURSE.     I.'ve  been  thinking. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Oh,  don't  say  that  over  and  over 
again !  "  I  've  been  thinking,  I  Ve  been  thinking." 
What  have  you  been  thinking  about? 

NURSE.    About  everything. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Can't  you  tell  us  about  what? 

NURSE.    I  tell  you,  about  everything. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Idiot! 

GEORGE  [stepping  in  front  of  his  mother]  Let  me 
speak  to  her. 

NURSE.     I  know  we  're  only  poor  country  folk. 

GEORGE.  Listen  to  me,  nurse.  Just  now  you  were 
not  only  satisfied  with  your  wages,  but  you  were  afraid 
we  were  going  to  send  you  away.  In  addition  to  your 
wages  we  have  promised  to  give  you  a  large  sum  of 
money  at  the  end  of  your  time  here  —  and  now  you  want 


232  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

to  leave  us,  at  once !  Come  now,  you  must  have  some 
sort  of  reason.  Has  anyone  been  doing  anything  to 
you? 

NURSE.    No,  sir. 

GEORGE.    Well,  then? 

NURSE.    I  've  been  thinking. 

GEORGE  [exasperated]  Don't  go  on  repeating  that 
silly  thing!  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  [Gently]  Come, 
come !  Tell  me  why  you  want  to  go  away.  [Silence]  Eh? 

NURSE.     I  have  told  you. 

GEORGE.    One  might  as  well  talk  to  a  block  of  wood. 

MME.  DUPONT  [coming  forward]  But  you  have  no 
right  to  leave  us. 

NURSE.     Yes;    I  want  to  go  away. 

MME.  DUPONT.    I  shall  not  allow  you  to  go ! 

GEORGE.  Oh,  well,  let  her  go ;  after  all  we  can't  keep 
her  by  force.  [To  the  nurse]  Since  you  want  to  go,  you 
shall  go ;  but  I  can  only  say  that  you  're  as  stupid  as  a 
cow. 

NURSE.     I  don't  mind  if  I  am. 

GEORGE.  I  shall  not  pay  you  for  the  month  that  has 
just  begun,  and  you  will  pay  for  your  own  railway  ticket. 

NURSE.    We  '11  see  about  that. 

GEORGE.  Yes ;  you  will  see.  You  '11  see  this  moment, 
too !  Be  off  with  you !  I  don't  want  you  any  longer. 
Now,  then! 

MME.  DUPONT.  Don't  fly  into  a  rage,  George.  [To 
the  nurse]  You  don't  mean  it  seriously,  nurse,  surely? 

NURSE.  I  would  rather  go  back  home  at  once  and  only 
have  my  five  hundred  francs. 

GEORGE.     What's  that? 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  are  you  talking  about? 

GEORGE.     Five  hundred  francs? 

MME.  DUPONT.    What  five  hundred  francs  ? 

NURSE.  The  five  hundred  francs  you  promised  me,  to 
be  sure ! 


Act  II  Damaged  Goods  233 

GEORGE.  We  never  promised  you  anything  of  the 
sort! 

NURSE.    Yes,  you  did. 

MME.  DUPONT.  Yes;  when  you  had  finished  nursing 
the  baby,  and  if  we  were  satisfied  with  you. 

NURSE.  No ;  you  said  you  would  give  me  five  hundred 
francs  when  I  left.  Now  I  'm  going  away,  so  I  want 
them. 

MME.  DUPONT.  You  will  please  not  address  me  in 
that  tone ;  you  understand  ? 

NURSE.  You  've  only  got  to  give  me  my  money  and  I 
shan't  say  a  word  more. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  Very  well,  I  discharge 
you  on  the  spot.  Now,  then,  be  off  with  you ! 

MME.  DUPONT.     I  should  think  so,  indeed. 

GEORGE.    Off  you  go ! 

NURSE.    Give  me  my  five  hundred  francs. 

GEORGE  [pointing  furiously  at  the  door]  Take  your 
blasted  carcase  out  of  this !  Do  you  hear  ? 

NURSE.  Hullo,  hullo!  You  speak  to  me  a  bit  more 
politely;  can't  you? 

GEORGE.  Will  you  get  out  of  this,  or  have  I  got  to 
send  for  the  police  ? 

NURSE.    The  police!    What  for,  eh,  what  for? 

GEORGE.    To  chuck  you  out,  you  — 

NURSE.  Well,  and  what  am  I  ?  I  'm  only  a  country 
girl,  I  am.  I  may  be  a  bit  stupid  — 

MME.  DUPONT.  Stupid !  I  should  think  you  were. 
You  have  no  more  brains  than  a  mule. 

NURSE.     I  may  be  stupid,  but  I  'm  not  — 

MME.  DUPONT  [interrupting]  You  have  no  more 
heart  than  a  stone.  You  are  a  wicked  woman. 

GEORGE.     You  're  no  better  than  a  thief. 

NURSE.    Oh,  a  thief  am  I  ?    I  should  like  to  know  why. 

GEORGE.  Because  you  're  trying  to  get  money  that 
is  n't  yours. 


234  Damaged  Goods  Act  II 

MME.  DUPONT.  Because  you  are  deserting  our  baby. 
You  are  a  wicked  woman. 

GEORGE.  Do  you  want  me  to  put  you  out?  [He  takes 
her  by  the  arm]. 

NURSE.  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it?  So  you  want  me  to  tell 
you  why  I  'm  going? 

GEORGE.     Now,  then,  out  with  it. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Well,  why  is  it? 

Henriette  enters  at  the  back.  In  the  noise  of  the 
quarrel  no  one  perceives  her. 

NURSE.  Very  well,  then.  I  'm  going  away  because 
I  don't  want  to  catch  your  beastly  diseases  here. 

MME.  DUPONT.    Be  quiet,  will  you? 

GEORGE.     Shut  up,  can't  you? 

NURSE.  Oh,  you  need  n't  be  afraid ;  everyone  knows 
about  it.  Justin  listened  at  the  door  to  what  your  doctor 
was  saying  and  told  me  what  was  up.  Oh,  I  may  be 
stupid,  but  I  'm  not  so  stupid  as  that.  I  'm  going  to  have 
my  money  and  get  out  of  this. 

GEORGE.    Shut  up ! 

MME.  DUPONT.  [taking  her  by  the  arm]  Hold  your 
tongue,  I  tell  you! 

NURSE.  Let  me  go !  Let  me  go !  I  know  your  brat 's 
not  going  to  live.  I  know  it 's  rotten  through  and 
through  because  its  father  's  got  a  beastly  disease  that 
he  caught  from  some  woman  of  the  streets. 

Henriette,  with  two  hoarse  cries,  falls  to  the  ground 
in  a  fit  of  nervous  sobbing. 

GEORGE  [rushing  towards  her]     My  God ! 

Henriette  eludes  him  and  pulls  herself  up  with  disgust, 
hatred,  and  horror  depicted  all  over  her. 

HENRIETTE  [shrieking  like  a  mad  woman]  Don't 
touch  me !  Don't  touch  me ! 


ACT    III 

The  doctor's  room  in  the  hospital  where  he  is  chief 
physician.  The  doctor  enters  with  a  medical  student, 
both  in  their  hospital  clothes,  and  takes  off  his  apron 
while  talking. 

DOCTOR.  By  the  way,  my  dear  fellow,  is  the  gentle- 
man we  passed  in  the  passage  waiting  for  you? 

STUDENT.     No,  not  for  me. 

DOCTOR.  Then  it 's  my  deputy.  Do  you  know  this 
name?  Where  did  I  put  his  card?  [He  looks  on  his 
desk]  Ah,  here.  "  Loches,  deputy  for  Sarthes." 

STUDENT.     That 's  the  famous  Loches. 

DOCTOR.  Ah,  yes,  deputy  for  Sarthes.  A  regular 
orator,  is  n't  he  ? 

STUDENT.     Tremendous,  I  believe. 

DOCTOR.  That 's  the  man  we  want  then.  He  busies 
himself  a  great  deal  with  social  questions? 

STUDENT.     Just  so. 

DOCTOR.  I  suppose  he  wants  to  start  an  agitation 
in  the  Chamber  in  favor  of  the  laws  for  which  we  have 
been  clamoring  so  long.  No  doubt  he  means  to  post  him- 
self up  first.  This  is  what  he  writes :  "  Loches,  deputy 
for  Sarthes,  presents  his  compliments,"  etc.  .  .  .  would 
be  much  obliged  if  I  would  see  him  to-morrow,  Sunday, 
not  for  a  consultation. 

STUDENT.     It 's  very  likely  he  has  some  idea  of  the  sort. 

DOCTOR.  Now  that  I  have  a  deputy  I  will  post  him 
up,  I  can  assure  you.  That 's  why  I  have  had  the  case 
from  St.  Charles'  ward  and  number  28  brought  here. 

235 


236  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

STUDENT.     Shall  you  want  me? 

DOCTOR.    Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow.    Good-bye. 

STUDENT.     Good-bye,  sir. 

DOCTOR  [calling  to  the  other  as  he  goes  out~\  Would 
you  mind  telling  them  to  show  in  M.  Loches?  Thanks 
very  much.  Good-bye. 

The  student  goes  out. 

Loches  enters  and  bows.     The  doctor  motions  him  to  be 
seated. 

LOCHES.  I  must  thank  you  for  being  so  kind  as  to 
receive  me  out  of  your  regular  hours.  The  business  that 
brings  me  here  is  peculiarly  distressing.  I  am  the 
father-in-law  of  M.  George  Dupont.  After  the  terrible 
revelation  of  yesterday,  my  daughter  has  returned  to 
me  with  her  child,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  be  so 
good  as  to  continue  attending  on  the  infant,  but  at  my 
house. 

DOCTOR.     Very  good. 

LOCHES.  Thank  you.  Now,  as  to  the  scoundrel  who 
is  the  cause  of  all  these  misfortunes. 

DOCTOR  [very  genily~\  You  must  excuse  me,  but  that 
is  a  subject  on  which  I  cannot  enter.  My  functions  are 
only  those  of  a  physician. 

LOCHES  [in  a  thick  voice\  I  ask  your  pardon,  but  I 
think  when  you  have  heard  me  for  a  moment,  you  will 
agree  with  me.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  the  plans  of 
vengeance  I  formed  yesterday,  when  my  poor  daughter 
fled  to  me  with  her  child  in  her  arms  after  the  revelation 
that  you  know.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I  speak  to  you  in 
this  state  —  oh,  I  can  scarce  contain  my  indignation !  I 
had  intended  to  talk  of  this  calmly:  but  when  I  think 
of  that  man  and  of  his  infamous  conduct  —  the  brutal, 
cowardly  blow  he  has  struck  at  me  and  mine  —  I  cannot 
control  myself  —  I  —  I  —  It  is  abominable !  My 
daughter!  A  girl  of  twenty-two!  Twenty-two! 
A  silence. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  237 

DOCTOR.  I  understand  and  respect  your  feelings; 
but,  believe  me,  you  are  not  in  a  fit  state  to  form  any 
decision  at  this  moment. 

LOCHES  [with  an  effort]  Yes,  yes:  I  will  command 
myself.  All  last  night  I  spent  in  profound  reflection; 
and  after  rejecting  the  ideas  I  mentioned,  this  is  the 
conclusion  to  which  I  have  come  in  conjunction  with 
my  daughter:  we  desire  to  obtain  a  divorce  as  soon  as 
possible.  Consequently  I  have  come  to  ask  you  for  the 
certificate  which  will  be  the  basis  of  our  action. 

DOCTOR.     What  certificate? 

LOCHES.  A  certificate  attesting  the  nature  of  the 
disease  which  this  man  has  contracted. 

DOCTOR.  I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  furnish  you 
with  such  a  certificate. 

LOCHES.    How  is  that? 

DOCTOR.    The  rule  of  professional  secrecy  is  absolute. 

LOCHES.  It  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  your  duty 
to  take  sides  with  a  criminal  against  his  innocent  victims. 

DOCTOR.  To  avoid  all  discussion,  I  may  add  that  even 
were  I  free,  I  should  refuse  your  request. 

LOCHES.     May  I  ask  why? 

DOCTOR.  I  should  regret  having  helped  you  to  obtain 
a  divorce. 

LOCHES.  Then  just  because  you  hold  this  or  that 
theory,  because  your  profession  has  rendered  you  scep- 
tical or  insensible  to  the  sight  of  misery  like  ours,  my 
daughter  must  bear  this  man's  name  to  the  end  of  her 
life! 

DOCTOR.  It  would  be  in  your  daughter's  own  interest 
that  I  should  refuse. 

LOCHES.  Indeed !  You  have  a  strange  conception  of 
her  interest. 

DOCTOR  [very  gently]  In  your  present  state  of  ex- 
citement you  will  probably  begin  to  abuse  me  before  five 
minutes  are  over.  That  will  not  disturb  a  man  of  my 


238  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

experience,  but  you  see  why  I  refused  to  discuss  these 
subjects.  However,  since  I  have  let  myself  in  for  it,  I 
may  as  well  explain  my  position.  You  ask  me  for  a  cer- 
tificate in  order  to  prove  to  the  court  that  your  son-in- 
law  has  contracted  syphilis? 

LOCHES.    Yes. 

DOCTOR.  You  do  not  consider  that  in  doing  so  you 
will  publicly  acknowledge  that  your  daughter  has  been 
exposed  to  the  infection.  The  statement  will  be  officially 
registered  in  the  papers  of  the  case.  Do  you  suppose 
that  after  that  your  daughter  is  likely  to  find  a  second 
husband  ? 

LOCHES.    She  will  never  marry  again. 

DOCTOR.  She  says  so  now.  Can  you  be  sure  that  she 
will  say  so  in  five  or  in  ten  years  time?  Besides,  you 
will  not  obtain  a  divorce,  because  I  shall  not  furnish  you 
with  the  necessary  proof. 

LOCHES.  I  shall  find  other  ways  to  establish  it.  I 
shall  have  the  child  examined  by  another  doctor. 

DOCTOR.  Indeed!  You  think  that  this  poor  little 
thing  has  not  been  unlucky  enough  in  her  start  in  life? 
She  has  been  blighted  physically:  you  wish  besides  to 
stamp  her  indelibly  with  the  legal  proof  of  congenital 
syphilis  ? 

LOCHES.  So  when  the  victims  seek  to  defend  them- 
selves they  are  struck  still  lower !  So  the  law  provides 
no  arms  against  the  man  who  takes  an  innocent,  con- 
fiding young  girl  in  sound  health,  knowingly  befouls  her 
with  the  heritage  of  his  debauchery,  and  makes  her 
mother  of  a  wretched  mite  whose  future  is  such  that 
those  who  love  it  most  do  not  know  whether  they  had 
better  pray  for  its  life  or  for  its  immediate  deliverance ! 
This  man  has  inflicted  on  his  wife  the  supreme  insult,  the 
most  odious  degradation.  He  has,  as  it  were,  thrust  her 
into  contact  with  the  streetwalker  with  whose  vice  he 
is  stained,  and  created  between  her  and  that  common 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  239 

thing  a  bond  of  blood  to  poison  herself  and  her  child. 
Thanks  to  him,  this  abject  creature,  this  prostitute,  lives 
our  life,  makes  one  of  our  family,  sits  down  with  us  at 
table.  He  has  smirched  my  daughter's  imagination  as  he 
has  tarnished  her  body,  and  bound  up  for  ever  in  her 
mind  the  ideal  of  love  that  she  placed  so  high  with 
heaven  knows  what  horrors  of  the  hospital.  He  has 
struck  her  physically  and  morally,  in  her  dignity  and  her 
modesty,  in  her  love  and  in  her  child.  He  has  hurled 
her  into  the  depths  of  shame.  And  the  state  of  law 
and  opinion  is  such  that  this  woman  cannot  be  separated 
from  this  man  save  at  the  cost  of  a  scandal  which  will 
overwhelm  herself  and  her  child.  Very  well,  then,  I 
shall  not  ask  the  aid  of  the  law.  Last  night  I  wondered 
if  it  was  not  my  duty  to  go  and  shoot  down  that  brute 
like  a  mad  dog.  It  was  cowardice  that  prevented  me. 
Weakly  I  proposed  to  invoke  the  law.  Well,  since  the 
law  will  not  do  justice,  I  will  take  it  into  my  own  hands. 
Perhaps  his  death  will  serve  as  a  warning  to  others. 

DOCTOR  [putting  aside  his  hat~\  You  will  be  tried  for 
your  life. 

LOCHES.    And  I  shall  be  acquitted. 

DOCTOR.  Yes;  but  after  the  public  narration  of  all 
your  troubles.  The  scandal  and  the  misfortune  will  be 
so  much  the  greater,  that  is  all.  And  how  do  you  know 
that  the  day  after  your  acquittal  you  will  not  find  your- 
self before  another  and  less  lenient  judge?  When  your 
daughter,  realizing  that  you  have  rendered  her  unhappi- 
ness  irreparable,  and  seized  with  pity  for  your  victim, 
demands  by  what  right  you  have  killed  the  father  of  her 
child,  what  will  you  say?  What  will  you  say  when  that 
child  one  day  asks  the  same  question? 

LOCHES  [speaking  before  the  other  has  done]  Then 
what  can  I  do? 

DOCTOR  [immediately]     Forgive. 
A  silence. 


240  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

LOCHES  [without  energy]    Never. 

DOCTOR.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have  the  right 
to  be  so  inflexible?  Was  it  not  within  your  power  at  a 
certain  moment  to  spare  your  daughter  the  possibility  of 
this  misery? 

LOCHES.  Within  my  power !  Do  you  imply  that  I  am 
responsible  ? 

DOCTOR.  Yes;  I  do.  When  the  marriage  was  pro- 
posed you  doubtless  made  inquiries  concerning  your 
future  son-in-law's  income;  you  investigated  his  securi- 
ties ;  you  satisfied  yourself  as  to  his  character.  You 
only  omitted  one  point,  but  it  was  the  most  important 
of  all:  you  made  no  inquiries  concerning  his  health. 

LOCHES.    No. 

DOCTOR.    And  why? 

LOCHES.    Because  it  is  not  the  custom. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  it  ought  to  be  made  the  custom.  Be- 
fore giving  his  daughter  in  marriage  a  father  ought  to 
take  as  much  care  with  regard  to  her  husband  as  a  house 
of  business  takes  in  engaging  an  employee. 

LOCHES.     You  are  right;   a  law  should  be  passed. 

DOCTOR.  No,  no !  We  want  no  new  laws :  there  are 
too  many  already.  All  that  is  needed  is  for  people  to 
understand  the  nature  of  this  disease  rather  better.  It 
would  soon  become  the  custom  for  a  man  who  proposed 
for  a  girl's  hand  to  add  to  the  other  things  for  which 
he  is  asked  a  medical  statement  of  bodily  fitness,  which 
would  make  it  certain  that  he  did  not  bring  this  plague 
into  the  family  with  him.  It  would  be  perfectly  simple. 
Once  it  was  the  custom,  the  man  would  go  to  his  doctor 
for  a  certificate  of  health  before  he  could  sign  the  regis- 
ter, just  as  now,  before  he  can  be  married  in  church,  he 
goes  to  his  priest  for  a  certificate  that  he  has  confessed. 
As  things  are,  before  a  marriage  is  concluded  the  family 
lawyers  meet  to  discuss  matters:  a  meeting  between  the 
two  doctors  would  be  at  least  as  useful  and  would  pre- 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  241 

vent  many  misfortunes.  Your  inquiry,  you  see,  was  in- 
complete. Your  daughter  might  well  ask  you,  who  are 
a  man  and  a  father,  and  ought  to  know  these  things,  why 
you  did  not  take  as  much  trouble  about  her  health  as 
about  her  fortune.  I  tell  you  that  you  must  forgive. 

LOCHES.     Never ! 

DOCTOR.  Well,  there  is  one  last  argument  which, 
since  I  must,  I  will  put  to  you.  Are  you  yourself  with- 
out sin,  that  you  are  so  relentless  to  others? 

LOCHES.     I  have  never  had  any  shameful  disease,  sir! 

DOCTOR.  I  was  not  asking  you  that.  I  was  asking 
you  if  you  had  never  exposed  yourself  to  catching  one. 
[He  pauses.  Loches  does  not  reply]  Ah,  you  see! 
Then  it  is  not  virtue  that  has  saved  you ;  it  is  luck.  Few 
things  exasperate  me  more  than  that  term  "  shameful 
disease,"  which  you  used  just  now.  This  disease  is  like 
all  other  diseases :  it  is  one  of  our  afflictions.  There  is 
no  shame  in  being  wretched  —  even  if  one  deserves  to 
be  so.  [Hotly]  Come,  come,  let  us  have  a  little  plain 
speaking !  I  should  like  to  know  how  many  of  these 
rigid  moralists,  who  are  so  choked  with  their  middle- 
class  prudery  that  they  dare  not  mention  the  name 
syphilis,  or  when  they  bring  themselves  to  speak  of  it 
do  so  with  expressions  of  every  sort  of  disgust,  and  treat 
its  victims  as  criminals,  have  never  run  the  risk  of  con- 
tracting it  themselves?  It  is  those  alone  who  have  the 
right  to  talk.  How  many  do  you  think  there  are?  Four 
out  of  a  thousand?  Well,  leave  those  four  aside:  be- 
tween all  the  rest  and  those  who  catch  the  disease  there 
is  no  difference  but  chance.  [Bursting  out]  And  by 
heavens,  those  who  escape  won't  get  much  sympathy 
from  me:  the  others  at  least  have  paid  their  fine  of 
suffering  and  remorse,  while  they  have  gone  scot-free ! 
[Recovering  himself]  Let 's  have  done,  if  you  please, 
once  for  all  with  this  sort  of  hypocrisy.  Your  son-in- 
law,  like  yourself  and  like  the  immense  majority  of  men, 


242  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

has  had  mistresses  before  he  married.  He  has  had  the 
ill-luck  to  catch  syphilis,  and  married  supposing  that 
the  disease  was  no  longer  dangerous  when  in  fact  it  still 
was.  It  is  a  misfortune  that  we  must  do  our  best  to 
remedy,  and  not  to  aggravate.  Perhaps  in  your  youth 
you  deserved  what  he  has  got  even  more  than  he ;  at  any 
rate  your  position  towards  him  is  as  that  of  the  culprit 
who  has  escaped  punishment  towards  his  less  fortunate 
comrade.  That  is  a  reflection  that  should,  I  think,  touch 
you. 

LOCHES.    You  put  it  in  such  a  way  — 

DOCTOR.     Am  I  not  right? 

LOCHES.  Perhaps;  but  I  can't  tell  my  daughter  all 
this  to  persuade  her  to  return  to  her  husband. 

DOCTOR.    There  are  other  arguments  that  you  can  use. 

LOCHES.     What,  then,  good  heavens? 

DOCTOR.  Any  number.  You  can  tell  her  that  a  sep- 
aration will  be  a  calamity  for  all  parties  and  that  her 
husband  is  the  only  person  interested  in  helping  her  at 
any  price  to  save  her  child.  You  can  tell  her  that  out 
of  the  ruins  of  her  first  happiness  she  can  construct  a 
life  of  solid  affection  that  will  have  every  chance  of 
being  lasting  and  most  sincerely  enviable.  There  is 
much  truth  in  the  saying  that  reformed  rakes  make  the 
best  husbands.  Take  your  son-in-law.  If  your  daughter 
consents  to  forgive  and  forget,  he  will  not  only  respect 
her,  he  will  be  eternally  grateful.  You  can  tell  her  all 
this  and  you  will  find  much  else  to  say  besides.  As  for 
the  future,  we  will  make  sure  that  when  they  are  re- 
united their  next  child  shall  be  healthy  and  vigorous. 

LOCHES.     Is  that  possible? 

DOCTOR.  Yes,  yes !  A  thousand  times  yes !  I  have 
one  thing  that  I  always  tell  my  patients:  if  I  could  I 
would  paste  it  up  at  every  street  corner.  "  Syphilis  is 
like  a  woman  whose  temper  is  roused  by  the  feeling  that 
her  power  is  disdained.  It  is  terrible  only  to  those  who 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  243 

think  it  insignificant,  not  to  those  who  know  its  dangers." 
Repeat  that  to  your  daughter.  Give  her  back  to  her  hus- 
band, —  she  has  nothing  more  to  fear  from  him,  —  and 
in  two  years'  time  I  guarantee  that  you  will  be  a  happy 
grandfather. 

LOCHES.  Thank  you,  doctor.  I  do  not  know  if  I  can 
ever  forget.  But  you  have  made  me  so  uneasy  on  the 
score  of  these  responsibilities  that  I  have  ignored  and 
given  me  back  so  much  hope,  that  I  will  promise  you  to 
do  nothing  rash.  If  my  poor  child  can,  after  a  time, 
bring  herself  to  forgive  her  husband,  I  shall  not  stand  in 
the  way. 

DOCTOR.  Good !  But  if  you  have  another  daughter, 
take  care  not  to  make  the  same  mistake  that  you  made 
over  the  marriage  of  your  first. 

LOCHES.    How  was  I  to  know? 

DOCTOR.  Ah,  there  it  is.  You  did  n't  know !  You  are 
a  father  and  you  did  n't  know !  You  are  a  deputy  and 
have  the  honor  and  the  burden  of  making  laws  for  us, 
and  you  did  n't  know !  You  did  n't  know  about  syphilis, 
just  as  you  probably  do  not  know  about  alcoholism  and 
tuberculosis. 

LOCHES.     Really,  I  — 

DOCTOR.  Well,  if  you  like  I  will  except  you.  But 
there  are  five  hundred  others,  are  there  not,  who  sit  in 
the  Chamber  and  style  themselves  Representatives  of  the 
people?  Here  are  the  three  unspeakable  gods  to  whom 
every  day  thousands  of  human  sacrifices  are  offered  up. 
What  single  hour  do  your  colleagues  find  for  the  organi- 
zation of  our  forces  against  these  insatiable  monsters  ? 
Take  alcoholism.  The  manufacture  of  poisonous  liquors 
should  be  prohibited  and  the  number  of  licences  cut 
down.  But  we  are  afraid  of  the  power  of  the  great  dis- 
tillers and  of  the  voting  strength  of  the  trade:  conse- 
quently we  deplore  the  immorality  of  the  working  classes 
and  quiet  our  conscience  by  writing  pamphlets  and 


244  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

preaching  sermons.  Pah!  Then  take  tuberculosis: 
everyone  knows  that  the  real  remedy  is  to  pay  sufficient 
wages  and  have  insanitary  workmen's  dwellings  knocked 
down.  But  no  one  will  do  it,  although  the  working  class 
is  the  most  useful  we  have  as  well  as  the  worst  rewarded. 
Instead,  workmen  are  recommended  not  to  spit.  Ad- 
mirable, is  n't  it  ?  Finally,  syphilis.  Why  do  you  not 
concern  yourselves  with  that  ?  You  create  offices  of  state 
for  all  sorts  of  things:  why  do  you  not  one  day  set 
about  creating  an  office  of  public  health? 

LOCHES.  My  dear  doctor,  you  are  falling  into  the 
common  French  mistake  of  attributing  all  the  ills  in  the 
world  to  the  government.  In  this  case  it  is  for  you  to 
show  us  the  way.  These  are  matters  for  scientific  ex- 
perts. You  must  begin  by  pointing  out  the  necessary 
measures,  and  then  — 

DOCTOR.  And  then  —  what?  Ha!  It  is  fifteen 
years  since  a  scheme  of  this  kind,  worked  out  and  ap- 
proved unanimously  by  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  was 
submitted  to  the  proper  authorities.  Since  that  day  it 
has  never  been  heard  of  again. 

LOCHES.  Then  you  think  that  there  really  are  meas- 
ures to  be  taken? 

DOCTOR.  You  shall  answer  that  question  yourself.  I 
must  tell  you  that  when  I  received  your  card  yesterday 
I  imagined  that  it  was  in  your  public  capacity  that  you 
were  about  to  interest  yourself  in  these  matters.  Con- 
sequently, after  naming  the  hour  of  your  visit,  I  told  off 
two  of  my  hospital  patients  to  show  to  you.  You  need 
not  be  alarmed.  I  shall  not  shock  your  nerves.  To 
outward  appearance  they  have  nothing  the  matter  with 
them.  They  are  not  bad  cases;  they  are  simply  the 
damaged  goods  of  our  great  human  cargo.  I  merely 
wished  to  give  you  food  for  reflection,  not  a  lesson  in 
pathology.  You  came  on  another  matter.  So  much  the 
worse  for  you.  I  have  you  and  I  shall  not  let  you  go. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  245 

[A  slight  pause].  I  will  ask  you,  therefore,  to  raise 
your  mind  above  your  personal  sorrow  and  to  conceive 
in  the  mass  the  thousands  of  beings  who  suffer  from 
similar  causes.  Thousands,  mark  you,  from  every  rank 
of  society.  The  disease  jumps  from  the  hovel  into  the 
home,  frequently  with  few  intermediate  steps;  so  that 
to  cleanse  the  gutter,  where  preventive  measures  can  be 
taken,  means  practically  to  safeguard  the  family  life. 
Our  greatest  enemy  of  all,  as  you  shall  see  for  yourself, 
is  ignorance.  Ignorance,  I  repeat.  The  refrain  is 
always  the  same:  "I  didn't  know."  Patients,  whom 
we  might  have  saved  had  they  come  in  time,  come  too 
late,  in  a  desperate  condition,  and  after  having  spread 
the  evil  far  and  wide.  And  why?  "  I  didn't  know." 
[Going  towards  the  door]  What  can  we  do?  We  can't 
hunt  them  out  from  the  highways  and  hedges.  [To  a 
"woman  in  the  passage]  Come  in,  please.  [The  woman 
enters.  She  is  of  the  working  class.  The  doctor  turns 
again  to  Loches]  Here  is  a  case.  This  woman  is  very 
seriously  ill.  I  have  told  her  so,  and  I  told  her  to  come 
here  once  a  week.  [To  the  woman]  Is  that  so? 

WOMAN.    Yes,  sir. 

DOCTOR  [angrily]  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  came 
last? 

WOMAN.     Three  months. 

DOCTOR.  Three  months !  How  do  you  suppose  I  can 
cure  you  like  that  ?  It  is  hopeless,  do  you  hear,  hopeless  ! 
Well,  why  did  n't  you  come  ?  Don't  you  know  that  you 
have  a  very  serious  disease? 

WOMAN.  Oh,  yes,  sir.  I  know  it  is.  My  husband 
died  of  it. 

DOCTOR  [more  gently]     Your  husband  died  of  it? 

WOMAN.     Yes,  sir. 

DOCTOR.     Did  he  not  go  to  the  doctor? 

WOMAN.    No,  sir. 

DOCTOR.    And  is  n't  that  a  warning  to  you? 


246  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

WOMAN.  Oh,  sir,  I  'd  come  as  often  as  you  told  me 
to,  only  I  can't  afford  it. 

DOCTOR.    How  do  you  mean,  you  can't  afford  it? 

LOCHES.  The  consultations  are  gratis,  are  they 
not? 

WOMAN.  Yes,  sir.  But  they  're  during  working  hours, 
and  then,  it 's  a  long  way  to  come.  One  has  to  wait  one's 
turn  with  all  the  others,  and  sometimes  it  takes  the  best 
part  of  the  day,  and  I  'm  afraid  of  losing  my  place  if  I 
stop  away  so  much.  So  I  wait  till  I  can't  help  coming 
again.  And  then  — 

DOCTOR.    Well? 

WOMAN.  Oh,  it 's  nothing,  sir.  You  're  too  kind  to 
me. 

DOCTOR.    Go  on,  go  on. 

WOMAN.  I  know  I  ought  n't  to  mind,  but  I  have  n't 
always  been  so  poor.  We  were  well  off  before  my  hus- 
band fell  ill,  and  I  've  always  lived  by  my  own  work. 
It 's  not  as  it  is  for  a  woman  who  has  n't  any  self-respect. 
I  know  it 's  wrong,  but  having  to  wait  like  that  with 
everyone  else  and  to  tell  all  about  myself  before  every- 
one —  I  know  I  'm  wrong,  but  it 's  hard  all  the  same,  it 's 
very  hard. 

DOCTOR.  Poor  woman !  [A  pause.  Then  very  gently] 
So  it  was  from  your  husband  that  you  caught  this  disease  ? 

WOMAN.  Yes,  sir.  We  used  to  live  in  the  country  and 
then  my  husband  caught  it  and  went  half  mad.  He 
did  n't  know  what  he  was  doing,  and  used  to  order  all 
kinds  of  things  we  could  n't  pay  for. 

DOCTOR.    Why  did  he  not  get  himself  looked  after? 

WOMAN.  He  did  n't  know.  We  were  sold  up  and 
came  to  Paris ;  we  had  n't  any  more  money.  Then  he 
went  to  the  hospital. 

DOCTOR.     Well? 

WOMAN.  He  got  looked  after  there,  but  they  would  n't 
give  him  any  medicines. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  247 

DOCTOR.     How  was  that? 

WOMAN.  Because  we  had  only  been  three  months  in 
Paris.  They  only  give  you  the  medicines  free  if  you 
have  lived  here  six  months. 

LOCHES.     Is  that  so? 

DOCTOR.     Yes,  that  is  the  rule. 

WOMAN.    You  see  it  is  n't  our  fault. 

DOCTOR.     You  have  no  children,  have  you? 

WOMAN.     I  could  n't  ever  bring  one  to  birth,  sir.    My 
husband  was  taken  at  the  very  beginning  of  our  marriage, 
while  he  was  doing  his  time  as  a  reservist.     There  are 
women  that  hang  about  the  barracks. 
A  silence. 

DOCTOR.  Ah !  Well,  this  is  my  private  address ;  you 
come  to  see  me  there  every  Sunday  morning.  [At  the 
door  he  slips  a  piece  of  money  into  her  hand.  Roughly] 
There,  just  take  that  and  run  along.  What 's  that? 
Tut,  tut !  Nonsense !  Nonsense !  I  have  n't  time  to 
listen  to  you.  Run  along,  now.  [He  pushes  her  out.  To 
someone  who  is  invisible  to  the  audience]  What  can  I 
do  for  you? 

MAN  [outside]  I  am  the  father  of  the  young  man  you 
saw  this  morning.  I  asked  leave  to  speak  to  you  after 
the  consultation  was  over. 

DOCTOR.  Ah,  yes,  just  so,  I  recognize  you.  Your  son 
is  at  college,  is  n't  he  ? 

MAN  [in  the  doorway]     Yes,  sir. 

DOCTOR.  Come  in,  come  in.  You  can  talk  before  this 
gentleman. 

MAN  [entering]  You  know,  sir,  the  disaster  that  has 
befallen  us.  My  son  is  eighteen;  as  the  result  of  this 
disease  he  is  half  paralyzed.  We  are  small  trades- 
people; we  have  regularly  bled  ourselves  in  order  to 
send  him  to  college,  and  now  —  I  only  wish  the  same 
thing  may  n't  happen  to  others.  It  was  at  the  very 
college  gates  that  my  poor  boy  was  got  hold  of  by  one 


248  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

of  these  women.  Is  it  right,  sir,  that  that  should  be  al- 
lowed ?  Are  n't  there  enough  police  to  prevent  children  of 
fifteen  from  being  seduced  like  that?  I  ask,  is  it  right? 

DOCTOR.    No. 

MAN.    Why  don't  they  stop  it,  then? 

DOCTOR.    I  don't  know. 

MAN.  Look  at  my  son.  He  'd  be  better  in  his  grave. 
He  was  such  a  good-looking  chap.  We  were  that 
proud  of  him. 

DOCTOR.  Never  despair.  We  '11  do  our  best  to  cure 
him.  [Sadly]  But  why  did  you  wait  so  long  before 
bringing  him  to  me? 

MAN.  How  was  I  to  know  what  he  had?  He  was 
afraid  to  tell  me;  so  he  let  the  thing  go  on.  Then  when 
he  felt  he  was  really  bad  with  it,  he  went,  without  letting 
me  know,  to  quacks,  who  robbed  him  without  curing  him. 
Ah,  that  too ;  is  that  right  ?  What 's  the  government 
about  that  it  allows  that  ?  Is  n't  that  more  important 
than  what  they  spend  their  time  over? 

DOCTOR.  You  are  right.  Their  only  excuse  is  that 
they  do  not  know.  You  must  take  courage.  We  have 
cured  worse  cases  than  your  son's.  As  for  the  others, 
perhaps  some  day  they  will  have  a  little  attention  paid 
them.  [He  goes  with  the  man  to  the  door.  Turning  to 
Loches]  You  see,  the  true  remedy  lies  in  a  change  of 
our  ways.  Syphilis  must  cease  to  be  treated  like  a  mys- 
terious evil  the  very  name  of  which  cannot  be  pro- 
nounced. The  ignorance  in  which  the  public  is  kept  of 
the  real  nature  and  of  the  consequences  of  this  disease 
helps  to  aggravate  and  to  spread  it.  Generally  it  is  con- 
tracted because  "  I  did  n't  know  " ;  it  becomes  danger- 
ous for  want  of  proper  care  because  "  I  did  n't  know  " ; 
it  is  passed  on  from  person  to  person  because  "  I  did  n't 
know."  People  ought  to  know.  Young  men  ought  to  be 
taught  the  responsibilities  they  assume  and  the  mis- 
fortunes they  may  bring  on  themselves. 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  249 

LOCHES.  At  the  same  time  these  things  cannot  be 
taught  to  children  at  school. 

DOCTOR.    Why  not,  pray? 

LOCHES.  There  are  curiosities  which  it  would  be  im- 
prudent to  arouse. 

DOCTOR  [hotly]  So  you  think  that  by  ignoring  those 
curiosities  you  stifle  them?  Why,  every  boy  and  girl 
who  has  been  to  a  boarding  school  or  through  college 
knows  you  do  not !  So  far  from  stifling  them,  you  drive 
them  to  satisfy  themselves  in  secret  by  any  vile  means 
they  can.  There  is  nothing  immoral  in  the  act  that  re- 
produces life  by  the  means  of  love.  But  for  the  benefit 
of  our  children  we  organize  round  about  it  a  gigantic 
conspiracy  of  silence.  A  respectable  man  will  take  his 
son  and  daughter  to  one  of  these  grand  music  halls,  where 
they  will  hear  things  of  the  most  loathsome  description; 
but  he  won't  let  them  hear  a  word  spoken  seriously  on 
the  subject  of  the  great  act  of  love.  No,  no  !  Not  a  word 
about  that  without  blushing:  only,  as  many  barrack  room 
jokes,  as  many  of  the  foulest  music  hall  suggestions  as 
you  like !  Pornography,  as  much  as  you  please :  science, 
never !  That  is  what  we  ought  to  change.  The  mystery 
and  humbug  in  which  physical  facts  are  enveloped  ought 
to  be  swept  away  and  young  men  be  given  some  pride  in 
the  creative  power  with  which  each  one  of  us  is  endowed. 
They  ought  to  be  made  to  understand  that  the  future  of 
the  race  is  in  their  hands  and  to  be  taught  to  transmit 
the  great  heritage  they  have  received  from  their  ancestors 
intact  with  all  its  possibilities  to  their  descendants. 

LOCHES.  Ah,  but  we  should  go  beyond  that !  I  realize 
now  that  what  is  needed  is  to  attack  this  evil  at  its  source 
and  to  suppress  prostitution.  We  ought  to  hound  out 
these  vile  women  who  poison  the  very  life  of  society. 

DOCTOR.  You  forget  that  they  themselves  have  first 
been  poisoned.  I  am  going  to  show  you  one  of  them. 
I  warn  you,  not  that  it  matters  much,  that  she  won't 


250  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

express  herself  like  a  duchess.  I  can  make  her  talk  by 
playing  on  her  vanity:  she  wants  to  be  a  ballet-dancer. 

He  opens  the  door  and  admits  a  pretty  girl  of  some 
twenty  years:  she  is  very  gay  and  cheerful. 

DOCTOR.  Getting  on  all  right?  [Without  waiting  for 
an  answer]  You  still  want  to  go  on  the  stage,  don't  you  ? 

GIRL.     Rather. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  this  gentleman  's  a  friend  of  the  man- 
ager of  the  opera.  He  can  give  you  a  line  to  him;  will 
that  do? 

GIRL.  Why,  of  course.  But  if  they  want  character, 
I  'm  done,  you  know. 

DOCTOR.  They  won't.  You  just  tell  the  gentleman 
about  yourself ;  what  you  want  to  do  and  what  you  've 
done.  Talk  to  him  a  bit. 

GIRL.  My  parents  were  people  of  good  position. 
They  sent  me  to  a  boarding  school  — 

DOCTOR  [interrupting]  You  needn't  tell  him  all  that; 
he  won't  believe  a  word  of  it. 

GIRL.  Eh?  Well,  but  if  I  tell  him  the  truth,  it's 
all  up  with  me. 

DOCTOR.  No,  no;  he  won't  mind.  Now  then,  you 
came  to  Paris  — 

GIRL.     Yes. 

DOCTOR.    You  got  a  place  as  maid-servant? 

GIRL.     Well,  yes. 

DOCTOR.     How  old  were  you  then? 

GIRL.     Why,  I  was  turned  seventeen. 

DOCTOR.     And  then  you  had  a  baby? 

GIRL  [astonished  at  the  question]  Of  course  I  did; 
next  year. 

DOCTOR.     Well,  who  was  its  father? 

GIRL  [treating  it  as  a  matter  of  course]  Why,  it  was 
my  master,  of  course. 

DOCTOR.  Go  on,  go  on.  Tell  us  about  it.  Your  mis- 
tress found  out.  What  happened  then? 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  251 

GIRL  [in  the  same  tone}  She  sent  me  packing.  I  'd 
have  done  the  same,  if  I  'd  been  her. 

DOCTOR.  Go  on;  what  are  you  stopping  for?  Talk 
away.  The  gentleman  's  from  the  country ;  he  does  n't 
understand  about  these  things. 

GIRL  [gaily]  Right  oh !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it. 
One  night  the  boss  comes  up  to  my  room  in  his  socks 
and  says :  "  If  you  shriek  out,  off  you  go !  "  Then  — 

DOCTOR.     No,  no.     Begin  after  you  lost  your  place. 

GIRL.    All  right,  if  you  think  he  '11  think  it  funny. 

DOCTOR.  Never  mind  that.  Say  what  you  're  doing 
now. 

GIRL.    Why,  I  come  here  every  day. 

DOCTOR.    But  before  you  come  here? 

GIRL.    Oh,  I  do  my  five  hours  on  the  streets. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  how's  that?  The  gentleman's  from 
the  country,  I  tell  you.  He  wants  to  know.  Go  on. 

GIRL.  There  now,  I  would  n't  have  thought  there  was 
anyone  did  n't  know  that.  Why,  I  rig  myself  out  as  a 
work-girl,  with  a  little  bag  on  my  arm  —  they  make  togs 
special  for  that,  y'  know  —  and  then  I  trot  along  by  the 
shop  windows.  Pretty  hard  work,  too,  'cause  to  do  it  real 
well  you  have  to  walk  fast.  Then  I  stops  in  front  of  some 
shop  or  other.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  that  does  the  trick. 
It  just  makes  me  laugh,  I  tell  you,  but  you  'd  think  all 
the  men  had  learnt  what  to  say  out  of  a  book.  There  's 
only  two  things  they  say,  that 's  all.  It 's  either:  "  You 
walk  very  fast  "  or  else:  "  Are  n't  you  afraid,  all  alone?  " 
One  knows  what  that  means,  eh?  Or  else  I  do  the 
"  young  widow  "  fake.  You  've  got  to  go  a  bit  fast  like 
that,  too.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  makes  'em  catch  on. 
They  find  out  precious  soon  I  'm  not  a  young  widow,  but 
that  does  n't  make  any  odds.  [Seriously]  There  're 
things  like  that  I  don't  understand. 

DOCTOR.  What  sort  are  they,  then?  Shopwalkers, 
commercial  travellers  ? 


252  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

GIRL.    I  like  that !    Why,  I  only  take  real  gentlemen. 

DOCTOR.    They  say  that 's  what  they  are. 

GIRL.  Oh,  I  can  see  well  enough.  Besides,  a  whole  lot 
of  'em  have  orders  on.  That  makes  me  laugh,  too.  When 
they  meet  you,  they  've  got  their  little  bits  of  ribbon  stuck 
in  their  buttonhole.  Then  they  follow  you  and  they 
have  n't  anything.  I  wanted  to  find  out,  so  I  looked  over 
my  shoulder  in  a  glass  and  saw  my  man  snap  the  ribbon 
out  with  his  finger  and  thumb  just  as  you  do  when  you  're 
shelling  peas.  You  know  ? 

DOCTOR.  Yes;  I  know.  Tell  us  about  your  child. 
What  became  of  it? 

GIRL.    Oh,  I  left  it  at  that  place  in  the  Rue  Denfer. 

DOCTOR  [to  Loches]     The  foundlings'  hospital. 

LOCHES.     Did  you  not  mind  doing  that? 

GIRL.  It  was  better  than  dragging  it  about  with  me  to 
starve. 

LOCHES.    Still,  it  was  your  child. 

GIRL.  Well,  what  about  its  father?  It  was  his  child, 
too,  was  n't  it  ?  See  here,  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  about 
that  again.  Anyway,  just  tell  me  what  I  could  have 
done,  you  two  there.  Put  it  out  to  nurse?  Well,  of 
course,  I  would  have,  if  I  'd  been  sure  of  having  the 
money  for  it.  But  then  I  wanted  to  get  another  place; 
and  how  was  I  to  pay  for  nursing  it  with  the  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  francs  a  month  I  should  have  got,  eh?  If 
I  wanted  to  keep  straight,  I  could  n't  keep  the  kid.  See  ? 

LOCHES.     It 's  too  horrible. 

The  doctor  stops  him  with  a  gesture. 

GIRL  [angrily  1  It 's  just  as  I  tell  you.  What  else 
could  I  have  done,  eh?  If  you  'd  been  in  my  place  you  'd 
have  done  just  the  same.  [Quieting  down]  See  here, 
what 's  the  good  of  making  a  fuss  about  it  ?  You  '11  say : 
"  But  you  have  n't  been  living  straight."  No  more  I 
have,  but  how  could  I  help  it  ?  I  could  n't  stay  in  my 
places ;  and  then,  when  you  're  hungry  and  a  jolly  young 


Act  III  Damaged  Goods  253 

chap  offers  you  a  dinner,  my  word,  I  'd  like  to  see  the 
girl  who  'd  say  no.  I  never  learnt  any  trade,  you  see. 
So  that  the  end  of  it  all  is  that  I  found  myself  in  St. 
Lazare  because  I  was  ill.  That 's  pretty  low  down,  too. 
These  beastly  men  give  you  their  foul  diseases  and  it 's 
me  they  stick  in  prison.  It 's  a  bit  thick,  that  is. 

DOCTOR.  You  gave  them  as  good  as  you  got,  did  n't 
you,  though? 

GIRL  [gaily]  Oh,  I  had  my  tit  for  tat!  [To  Laches'] 
I  suppose  you  'd  like  to  have  that,  too  ?  Before  they 
carted  me  off  there,  the  day  I  found  out  I  was  in  for  it, 
I  was  going  home  in  a  pretty  temper  when  who  do  you 
think  I  met  in  the  street  but  my  old  boss !  I  was  that 
glad  to  see  him !  Now,  thinks  I  to  myself,  you  're  going 
to  pay  me  what  you  owe  me  —  with  interest,  too !  I  just 
winked  at  him :  oh,  it  did  n't  take  long,  I  can  tell  you. 
[Tragically]  Then  when  I  left  him,  I  don't  know  what 
came  over  me  —  I  felt  half  mad.  I  took  on  everyone  I 
could,  for  anything  or  for  nothing!  As  many  as  I  could, 
all  the  youngest  and  the  best  looking  —  well,  I  only  gave 
'em  back  what  they  gave  me !  Now  somehow  I  don't 
care  any  more :  where  's  the  use  in  pulling  long  faces 
about  things  ?  It  only  makes  me  laugh.  Other  women, 
they  do  just  the  same;  but  then  they  do  it  for  their 
bread  and  butter,  d'  ye  see.  A  girl  must  live  even  if 
she  is  ill,  eh?  [A  pause]  Well,  you'll  give  my  name 
to  the  chap  at  the  theatre,  won't  you  ?  The  doc  here  '11 
tell  you  my  address. 

LOCHES.    I  promise  you  I  will. 

GIRL.     Thank  ye,  sir. 

She  goes  out. 

DOCTOR.  Was  I  not  right  to  keep  that  confession  for 
the  end?  This  poor  girl  is  typical.  The  whole  problem 
is  summed  up  in  her:  she  is  at  once  the  product  and  the 
cause.  We  set  the  ball  rolling,  others  keep  it  up,  and  it 
runs  back  to  bruise  our  own  shins.  I  have  nothing  more 


254  Damaged  Goods  Act  III 

to  say.  [He  shakes  hands  with  Loches  as  he  conducts 
him  to  the  door,  and  adds  in  a  lighter  tone']  But  if  you 
give  a  thought  or  two  to  what  you  have  just  seen  when 
you  are  sitting  in  the  Chamber,  we  shall  not  have  wasted 
our  time. 


MATERNITY 

[New  Version] 

Translated  by 
JOHN   POLLOCK 


A  second  version  of  Maternity  was  lately  undertaken 
by  M.  Brieux.  It  differs  in  so  many  respects  from  the 
original  one  performed  in  England  by  the  Stage  Society, 
that  it  has  been  decided  to  include  both  versions  in  this 
volume.  That  which  follows  is  the  later  one,  and  is  pre- 
sented by  its  author  as  the  final  form  of  the  play. 


ACT    I 

Brignac's  drawing-room.  An  octagonal  room,  five 
sides  of  which  are  visible.  Right,  the  door  of  Brignac's 
study,  and  beyond  it  the  mantelpiece,  in  front  of  which 
are  arm-chairs  and  a  marquetry  table  with  seats  round 
it.  At  the  back  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  which,  being 
opened,  shows  the  bed.  Left,  the  door  into  the  hall,  then 
that  of  Annette's  room,  and  beyond,  a  large  window  with 
a  piano  and  music-stool  in  front  of  it.  In  the  corners, 
at  the  back,  on  both  sides,  flowers  in  stands.  The  room 
is  pretty  and  comfortable,  without  being  luxurious.  At 
the  rise  of  the  curtain  the  stage  is  empty.  The  door,  left, 
opens,  and  Josephine,  the  maid,  shows  in  Madeleine,  a 
woman  of  twenty-eight. 

JOSEPHINE.  Madame  Brignac  must  be  there.  I  '11  tell 
her. 

She  goes  across  to  the  door  at  the  back  and  disap- 
pears. After  a  moment  Lucie  enters.  She  is  twenty- 
five  years  old,  and  her  simple,  but  becoming,  dress  con- 
trasts with  her  elder  sister's  exquisite  and  fashionable 
appearance. 

LUCIE  [going  gaily  to  Madeleine  and  kissing  her~\ 
My  dear,  how  are  you? 

MADELEINE.    Lucie,  sweet! 

LUCIE.    How  ravishing  you  look ! 

MADELEINE.  One  must,  to  please  one's  husband.  Tell 
me  —  but  first,  how  are  the  children  ? 

LUCIE.    About  as  usual. 

257 


258  Maternity  Act  I 

MADELEINE.  I  Ve  a  piece  of  good  news.  You  know 
Dr.  Hourtin? 

LUCIE.    No,  no;   I  don't  think  so. 

MADELEINE.  Yes;  you  do.  The  famous  Hourtin, 
you  know.  The  man  they  call  Providence  for  nervous 
diseases. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  yes,  yes. 

MADELEINE.  Dr.  Bar  wanted  to  have  a  consultation 
with  him  about  your  children,  did  n't  he  ? 

LUCIE.     Of  course;    I  know. 

MADELEINE.     I  've  just  met  him  at  the  Parmillets'. 

LuCiE.     What,  he  's  at  Chartres  ! 

MADELEINE.  He  's  going  to  see  his  brother  somewhere 
or  other  not  far  off,  and  so  he  came  through  Chartres  to 
visit  the  wonderful  cave.  In  the  one  week  since  they 
found  it  he  must  be  at  least  the  twentieth  man  of  science 
to  come  and  pore  over  these  old  prehistoric  bones. 

LUCIE.     But  I  thought  he  was  a  specialist  for  — 

MADELEINE.    Yes;  the  skeletons  are  just  a  relaxation. 

LUCIE.    Oh!    Well  — 

MADELEINE.  He  's  a  great  friend  of  the  Parmillets. 
So,  as  I  had  the  chance,  I  asked  him  to  come  here,  and  he 
said  he  would. 

LUCIE.  But  the  children  are  with  their  granny  in  the 
country. 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  dear!  Couldn't  you  send  for 
them? 

LUCIE.  Yes,  certainly.  But  when  is  Dr.  Hourtin 
going? 

MADELEINE.  At  five  o'clock.  He  wanted  to  go  to  his 
brother  first. 

LUCIE.     There  'd  hardly  be  time. 

MADELEINE.  No.  Suppose  we  were  to  ask  him  to 
come  this  evening  on  his  way  back? 

LUCIE.     Do  you  think  he  would? 

MADELEINE.    Oh,  yes ;   he  's  a  charming  man. 


Act  I  Maternity  259 

LUCIE.  What  a  piece  of  luck!  If  he  could  only  cure 
my  poor  babies ! 

MADELEINE.  They  say  he  works  wonders.  And  where 
is  our  little  Annette? 

LUCIE.  Annette  is  with  the  Bernins.  Tuesday  is  her 
day  for  going  there. 

MADELEINE.    And  your  husband  ? 

LUCIE.  My  husband?  Why,  he's  at  his  meeting,  of 
course. 

MADELEINE.    What,  is  it  this  afternoon? 

LUCIE.  You  naughty  woman!  Not  even  to  know  the 
date  of  your  brother-in-law's  meeting ! 

MADELEINE  [making  a  face]  No.  To  me,  you  know, 
all  these  questions  —  birth-rate,  repopulation  —  ugh ! 

LUCIE.    France  has  need  of  it. 

MADELEINE.  I  suppose  so.  [A  pause]  How  is  it 
you  're  not  at  the  meeting? 

LUCIE.     It 's  only  for  working-men. 

MADELEINE.     M.  de  Forgeau's  constituents? 

LUCIE.  Yes;  but  some  day  they  may  be  Julien's 
constituents. 

MADELEINE.     How  do  you  mean? 

LUCIE.  Listen !  It 's  a  secret,  but  I  can't  help  telling 
you.  M.  de  Forgeau  has  promised  Julien  to  get  him 
adopted  by  his  committee  at  the  election  to  the  Chamber 
two  months  from  now. 

MADELEINE.  Do  you  find  the  idea  of  being  wife  of  a 
deputy  fascinating? 

LUCIE  {laughing]  He  did  n't  ask  my  opinion.  [Seri- 
ously] It  seems  that  if  he  were  in  the  Chamber,  Julien 
might  look  forward  to  going  very  far. 

MADELEINE.     It  was  he  who  said  that? 

LUCIE.  He,  and  M.  de  Forgeau.  You  know  we  're 
not  rich.  My  husband's  professional  income  would 
hardly  be  enough  to  secure  the  future  of  our  two  little 
girls,  even  if  one  were  not,  alas,  an  invalid. 


260  Maternity  Act  I 

MADELEINE.  Are  n't  you  afraid  that  Julien  may  be 
once  again  letting  his  imagination  run  away  with  him? 

LUCIE  [melancholy]  What  would  be  the  good  of  my 
trying  to  dissuade  him?  I  must  make  myself  try  to 
share  his  illusions  —  for  instance,  in  the  success  of  his 
meeting  this  afternoon. 

MADELEINE.  But  what  can  he  find  to  say  to  working- 
men  about  all  that?  That  they  ought  to  have  large 
families  ? 

LUCIE.    That 's  it. 

MADELEINE.  Of  course,  I  know  nothing  about  it,  but 
I  should  think  the  best  way  to  encourage  them  was  not 
to  let  the  children  they  have  already  perish  of  want. 

LUCIE.  Just  what  I  tell  Julien.  It 's  the  rich  who 
ought  to  have  children. 

MADELEINE.    So  I  think. 

LUCIE.  You  're  rich  —  why  have  you  only  got  one, 
then? 

MADELEINE.  That 's  another  question.  Don't  let 's 
talk  about  that.  Talk  of  something  cheery. 

JOSEPHINE  [entering]  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Cathe- 
rine is  here. 

LUCIE.  Ask  her  to  come  in.  [To  Madeleine]  It's 
ever  so  long  since  I  've  seen  nursie. 

Josephine  shows  in  Catherine,  a  working-woman  of 
forty,  dressed  simply  and  very  neatly  in  a  black  cloak 
and  bonnet. 

CATHERINE  [to  Lucie  and  Madeleine]  Good-day, 
ma'am.  Good-day. 

LUCIE  and  MADELEINE  [shaking  hands]  How  do  you 
do,  Catherine? 

CATHERINE.    And  your  sister,  ma'am,  how  's  she? 

LUCIE.    Annette  ?     Your  darling  's  very  well. 

CATHERINE.  That 's  good  to  hear.  I  thought  I  'd  just 
look  in  to  say  good-day. 

LUCIE.    I  'm  glad  you  came. 


Act  I  Maternity  261 

CATHERINE.  And  to  ask  if  you  have  n't  any  errands 
for  me  in  Paris. 

MADELEINE  [teasing  her  good  humouredly]  Ah!  So 
Catherine  's  off  to  Paris  —  quite  the  lady ! 

LUCIE.     Shall  you  stay  there  long? 

CATHERINE.  Oh,  no.  I  expect  to  be  back  to-morrow. 
My  big  boy  there  is  n't  very  well.  So  I  'm  going  to  see 
him,  too. 

MADELEINE  [in  order  to  say  something]  This  early 
heat,  no  doubt. 

CATHERINE.  May  be.  Then  you  have  n't  any  errands 
for  me? 

LUCIE  and  MADELEINE.    No,  no.    No,  thank  you. 

CATHERINE.    You  don't  know  what  I  'm  going  for? 

LUCIE.    I  have  no  idea. 

CATHERINE.    I  'm  going  to  see  my  eldest  girl. 

MADELEINE.     You  know  where  she  's  living,  then  ? 

CATHERINE.    Yes,  I  've  seen  someone  who  met  her. 

LUCIE.    And  why  did  n't  she  write  to  you  ? 

CATHERINE.    We  'd  got  angry  with  one  another. 

MADELEINE.    Ah ! 

CATHERINE.  After  she  was  turned  off  from  the  sewing- 
place  she  could  n't  get  any  work.  And  what  must  she  do 
but  want  money  from  me?  As  if  we  had  so  much  to 
spare ! 

LUCIE.     What 's  she  doing  now  ? 

CATHERINE.  She  's  in  work  again.  It  seems  she  's 
got  a  good  place. 

LUCIE.    Come  and  tell  us  about  her,  won't  you? 

CATHERINE.     Yes,  indeed  I  will. 

MADELEINE.  And  when  you  're  my  way  come  in  to 
see  me,  too.  I  '11  have  a  little  packet  of  things  for  your 
youngsters. 

CATHERINE.  Ah,  there  it  is !  My  husband  won't  let 
me  take  anything  more  from  you  or  Mme.  Brignac. 

LUCIE.    Why? 


262  Maternity  Act  I 

CATHERINE.  Because  of  his  politics.  He  says  he  's 
not  going  to  vote  for  M.  Brignac,  so  he  does  n't  want  to 
owe  him  anything. 

MADELEINE.  But  why  not  from  me?  I  don't  ask  him 
to  vote  for  me ! 

CATHERINE.  That 's  all  one.  You  see,  when  you  're 
in  want,  it  turns  a  body  sulky. 

LUCIE.  In  want  ?  He  's  still  at  the  electric  works, 
is  n't  he  ?  He  makes  a  good  living. 

CATHERINE.  So  he  does.  If  there  were  just  the  two 
of  us,  we  'd  live  like  lords.  But  it 's  the  little  ones, 
that 's  what  it  is :  there  are  too  many  of  us. 

MADELEINE.    Oh,  come,  come,  Catherine ! 

CATHERINE.  Well,  ma'am,  I  ask  you.  We  don't  go 
spending  our  money  at  the  theatre  — 

Brignac  enters.  He  is  a  dark,  good-looking  fellow  of 
five-and-thirty,  rather  stout,  with  a  strong,  vibrating 
voice,  and  a  southern  accent. 

BRIGNAC  [to  Josephine]  And  bring  me  the  biscuits 
and  the  bottle  I  told  you  to  bring  up  this  morning.  The 
one  with  the  green  seal. 

JOSEPHINE.     Yes,  sir. 

BRIGNAC.  Aha,  Lucie  !  A  kiss,  quick !  Congratulate 
me! 

LUCIE.    It  went  well? 

BRIGNAC.  Splendidly.  How  are  you,  Madeleine? 
Immensely !  Ah,  Catherine,  it 's  you  ?  How  are  you  ? 

CATHERINE.    I  was  just  going,  sir. 

BRIGNAC.    I  did  n't  see  your  husband  at  the  meeting. 

CATHERINE.     He  was  n't  there,  sir. 

BRIGNAC.  Ah,  yes,  yes.  A  regular  fire-eater  now, 
is  n't  he  ?  Well,  I  hope  his  Socialism  is  profitable. 

CATHERINE.    Well,  we  might  — 

BRIGNAC.  Get  along  better?  I  thought  so.  [7n  a 
changed  tone]  Ah,  Catherine,  I  used  to  know  you  and 
your  family  when  your  husband  went  more  to  church 


Act  I  Maternity  263 

than  to  his  club.  You  had  faith  then  to  help  you  bear  up 
against  your  troubles !  You  put  your  trust  in  Provi- 
dence !  Yes,  you  brought  up  your  children  according 
to  the  Scriptures :  "  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how 
they  grow.  They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin,  and  yet 
I  say  unto  you,  that  even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these." 

MADELEINE  [shrugging  her  shoulders.  Low~\  Don't, 
Julien. 

CATHERINE.  Good-bye,  ma'am.  Good-bye,  sir.  [She 
goes  out]. 

BRIONAC  [to  Madeleine]     What  is  it? 

MADELEINE.     You  should  have  more  tact. 

LUCIE  [interposing]  Come  now,  don't  quarrel,  you 
two.  [To  Madeleine]  You  're  not  to  get  cross  again. 
Tell  us  about  your  meeting. 

BRIONAC.  First,  just  to  get  back  my  strength!  [He 
drinks  a  glass  of  the  wine  that  Josephine  has  brought]. 
My  meeting?  Well,  it  was  a  huge  success.  On  the 
battlefield  Napoleon  used  to  say:  "One  night  of  Paris 
will  make  up  for  all  this."  If  he  lived  now,  he'd  say: 
"  One  night  of  Paris  —  after  an  address  from  Brignac !  " 
I  tell  you,  I  did  magnificently.  And  the  audience  was 
by  no  means  only  my  friends.  I  know  that,  because 
when  I  said  —  when  I  was  inspired  to  say  — "  God 
blesses  large  families  —  " 

MADELEINE.  Someone  answered:  "But  he  doesn't 
support  them." 

BRIONAC.    Were  you  there? 

MADELEINE.  No,  but  the  retort  is  so  well  known  that 
nowadays  people  don't  allude  to  blessings  from  above. 
There  's  too  much  suffering  here  below.  It  looks  like  a 
bad  j  oke. 

BRIONAC.  Ah,  that  spirit  of  Voltaire !  [He  pours  out 
another  glass  of  ivine]. 

LUCIE.     Don't  you  think  you  Ve  had  enough,  dear? 


264  Maternity  Act  I 

BRIGNAC  [holding  up  the  glass]  What,  of  this  wine? 
From  a  vineyard  that  my  father  planted? 

LUCIE.     That  makes  no  difference. 

BRIGNAC.     Have  you  ever  seen  me  drunk? 

LUCIE.    No. 

BRIGNAC.  Well,  then!  [He  drinks]  Ah!  Pure 
sunshine !  It  brightens  my  heart  to  drink  it !  M.  de 
Forgeau  was  enchanted.  Have  you  told  Madeleine  that 
I  'm  going  to  stand? 

LUCIE.     Everyone  knows  about  it. 

BRIGNAC.  So  much  the  better.  After  to-day,  I  have 
reason  to  think  that  there  's  every  chance  of  my  being 
elected.  At  last,  we  '11  have  done  with  this  narrow  life 
of  a  provincial  lawyer !  You  '11  see !  And  who  knows 
—  between  ourselves,  of  course  —  who  knows  that  some 
day  I  shan't  have  men  on  the  bench  coming  to  beg  favors 
of  the  Minister  that  they  used  to  refuse  to  the  simple 
lawyer!  Aha,  and  why  not?  Stranger  things  have  hap- 
pened. [Walking  about  and  rubbing  his  hands]  Ah, 
there  '11  be  some  who  '11  cut  a  queer  figure  then.  [He 
pulls  himself  up]  Well,  well.  In  the  meantime  the 
essential  thing  is  the  deputation. 

LUCIE.     Yes. 

BRIGNAC.  We  're  working  at  it.  And  what  could  be 
finer  than  to  advance  one's  own  interests  in  the  very  act 
of  defending  one's  country?  That  is  the  best  defence 
of  it,  to  help  in  the  production  of  the  human  race  itself, 
for  it  means  true  morality  within  and  the  respect  of 
other  countries  from  without. 

MADELEINE.  You  did  n't  forget  that  in  your  speech, 
I  hope? 

BRIGNAC  [simply]  No,  no;  that  was  part  of  my 
peroration.  All  Frenchmen  ought  to  do  like  old  Fechain. 

LUCIE.    Who's  he? 

BRIGNAC.  Old  Fechain  —  he  was  one  of  the  audience. 
You  '11  see  him  presently.  He  came  to  shake  hands  with 


Act  I  Maternity  265 

me  after  the  meeting.  He  has  twelve  children  —  mag- 
nificent !  Magnificent !  I  repeat.  I  told  him  to  come 
round  here. 

MADELEINE.     What  for? 

BRIGNAC.  I  don't  know,  he  was  so  worked  up,  I 
wanted  to  show  him  a  mark  of  my  sympathy.  He  '11  tell 
you  how  it  went  off;  you  don't  believe  me,  Madeleine? 

MADELEINE.     Indeed  I  do. 

BRIGNAC.  I  saw  you  smiling.  Yes,  he  '11  tell  you. 
[Josephine  brings  a  card  in]  Dr.  Hourtin?  I  know 
that  name. 

LUCIE.  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot.  It 's  Dr.  Hourtin,  the  pro- 
fessor at  Paris. 

MADELEINE.     I  '11  see  him,  and  explain. 

LUCIE.  Yes,  do.  [Madeleine  goes  out~\  It 's  the  doctor 
we  wanted  to  consult  about  the  children,  you  know.  He 
happens  to  be  at  Chartres,  and  Madeleine  met  him  at 
some  friends. 

Madeleine  returns  with  Dr.  Hourtin.  He  is  a  man  of 
thirty-five,  with  short  hair  and  a  pointed  beard. 

HOURTIN  [to  Madeleine,  as  they  come  in]  No  apol- 
ogy is  needed. 

MADELEINE  [introducing  him]  My  sister,  Madame 
Brignac;  Monsieur  Brignac.  Professor  Hourtin.  [Greet- 
ings]. 

HOURTIN.  I  hear  that  your  babies  are  in  the  country. 
If  you  like,  I  could  come  in  to  see  them  to-morrow  on 
my  way  back.  But  only  after  dinner,  I  fear  —  my  train 
gets  in  late. 

LUCIE.     Of  course!    We  shall  be  extremely  grateful. 

MADELEINE  [to  Lucie]  I  shall  arrange  to  come  as 
soon  as  possible  to  hear  what  the  doctor  says. 

BRIGNAC.  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  I 'm  really  delighted. 
[Ringing]  Let  me  offer  you  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of 
Alicante. 

HOURTIN.    No,  thank  you. 


266  Maternity  Act  I 

BRIONAC  [speaking  first  in  an  undertone  to  Josephine, 
who  answers  the  bell]  Just  for  the  sake  of  company ! 
And  so,  here  you  are  at  Chartres  —  a  stroke  of  luck  for 
the  town  and  for  us. 

HOURTIN.  I  was  going  to  see  my  brother  at  Chateau- 
dun  and  thought  that  I  would  visit  the  town  on  the  way. 

BRIONAC.  And  see  our  famous  cave  —  these  pre- 
historic remains? 

HOURTIN.    Anthropology  interests  me. 

BRIONAC.    A  thoroughly  genuine  discovery,  too. 

HOURTIN.    Oh,  yes,  there  is  no  doubt. 

LUCIE.     I  saw  a  photograph  of  some  of  the  remains. 
It  was  horrible. 

HOURTIN.    Don't  say  that! 

LUCIE.  I  dreamed  of  it  all  night.  Were  they  really 
human  beings? 

HOURTIN.  The  remains  are  undoubtedly  those  of  a 
household  of  the  stone  age.  The  man's  skeleton  is  intact, 
the  woman's  skull  is  fractured. 

LUCIE.     Poor  woman!     By  a  falling  rock? 

HOURTIN.  Oh,  no.  The  human  fist  of  that  date  was 
well  able  to  give  such  a  blow. 

BRIONAC.     In  fact,  a  little  domestic  difference? 

HOURTIN  [laughing']  I  can't  diagnose  at  such  an  in- 
terval. But  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  man  trying  to  drag 
the  woman  into  his  den.  She  refuses.  He  raises  his 
fist  —  a  blow  to  stun  her,  only  he  hits  rather  too  hard. 

LUCIE.    How  terrible ! 

HOURTIN.  Those  were  the  manners  of  our  ancestor, 
the  cave  man. 

BRIGNAC.     The  world  has  changed. 

MADELEINE.  Yes.  Since  the  cave  man  hypocrisy  has 
been  invented. 

HOURTIN.  And  we  can  imagine  further.  A  rival 
springs  on  the  ravisher,  strangles  him,  and  leaves  the 
two  corpses  in  the  midst  of  the  flint  weapons  and  the 
kitchen  utensils  of  polished  stone. 


Act  I  Maternity  267 

LUCIE.     It 's  enough  to  give  one  a  nightmare. 

HOURTIN  [rising,  to  Lucie]  Forgive  me.  [To  Brig- 
nac]  I  should  have  begun  instead  of  ended  by  congratu- 
lating you  on  the  success  of  your  meeting. 

Josephine  enters  with  a  bottle  and  glasses  on  a  tray. 

BRIGNAC.  You  must  not  go  without  drinking  to  it, 
then.  Aha,  I  'm  not  from  Chartres !  Montpellier  is  my 
native  town ;  close  by  Montpellier,  at  least.  Palavas  — 
Palavas-les-Flots.  In  my  part  of  the  country  an  honest 
man  is  n't  afraid  of  a  glass  of  wine.  Alicante,  you  know ! 

HOURTIN.     No,  thank  you,  really. 

BRIGNAC  [filling  his  glass]  I  see.  You  're  afraid 
that  my  Alicante  comes  from  the  grocer's  ?  No,  no !  My 
dear  sir,  I  am  the  son  of  a  wine  grower  and  I  can  answer 
for  my  cellar,  I  assure  you. 

HOURTIN.     I  only  drink  water. 

BRIGNAC.  Ah !  You  belong  to  that  school  of  doctors 
to  whom  wine  is  anathema.  Let  me  tell  you  you  're  ruin- 
ing at  one  stroke  the  stomach  of  the  north  and  the  purse 
of  the  south.  Pessimists,  that 's  what  you  are.  It 's 
nothing  short  of  treason  to  slander  the  good  wine  of 
France.  Here  's  to  your  health,  and  to  mine,  and  to 
France!  [He  drinks], 

HOURTIN  [laughing]  Allow  me  to  point  out  that  it 's 
Spanish  wine  you  are  drinking. 

BRIGNAC  [laughing  too]  Yes;  but  I  only  drink  this 
in  a  small  glass.  Look  here,  I  '11  prove  to  you  that 
you  're  wrong.  My  father  —  you  see,  I  don't  need  to  go 
far  —  died  at  seventy-five,  as  strong  as  an  oak.  He  kept 
his  vines  and  his  vines  kept  him.  I  can  promise  you  he 
did  n't  only  drink  water.  I  don't  say  that  now  and  then 
—  market  day  and  so  on  —  he  did  n't  get  a  bit  lively, 
a  bit  too  lively,  perhaps.  Well,  did  he  suffer  for  it?  On 
the  contrary,  it  gave  him  strength  to  support  life  and 
made  him  charitable  to  other  people's  little  failings.  A 
good  glass  of  wine  never  hurt  anybody  —  there  's  my 


268  Maternity  Act  I 

witness  you  see  —  and  my  dear  father  did  n't  drink  by  the 
thimbleful,  I  can  tell  you.  But  nowadays  you  think  you 
see  drunkards  everywhere. 

HOURTIN.    With  good  reason. 

BRIGNAC.    Well,  take  me!    Do  I  look  healthy?     Fit? 

HOURTIN.    I  don't  judge  people  by  their  looks. 

BRIGNAC.  Well,  then,  I  am  fit.  Ask  my  wife  if  I  Ve 
ever  been  ill?  That 's  the  result  of  following  my  father's 
example.  Never  once  ill  at  thirty-five.  Only,  only  — 
mark  my  words  —  I  drink  nothing  but  good  wine.  You 
must  admit  I  'm  right,  for  I  Ve  never  been  —  I  won't  say 
drunk,  but  even  ordinarily  elevated.  No,  never !  Is  n't 
that  so,  Lucie?  I  '11  hold  my  own  with  anyone.  I  've 
often  won  bets  about  it. 

LUCIE.  But  you  know  you  sometimes  have  fits  of 
passion. 

BRIGNAC.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  That 's 
my  temperament.  I  'm  built  nervously. 

HOURTIN.    Never  having  been  drunk  proves  nothing. 

BRIGNAC.    Oh,  come! 

HOURTIN.  No.  There  are  a  large  number  of  men 
who  drink,  perhaps,  a  glass  of  vermouth  before  lunch,  a 
bottle  of  wine  at  lunch,  and  two  or  three  glasses  of 
liqueur  after.  The  same  at  dinner,  after  an  absinthe  and 
a  glass  or  two  of  beer  in  the  afternoon.  They  would  be 
much  astonished  to  learn  that  they  are  thoroughly 
alcoholized. 

BRIGNAC.  Well,  I  do  all  that,  and  I  'm  as  well  as  can 
be.  What  is  more,  as  a  baby  I  was  very  delicate.  I 
could  n't  walk  till  I  was  eighteen  months  old  or  talk 
before  two  years.  And  I  'm  from  the  South.  Ha,  ha ! 
You  '11  say  I  'm  making  up  for  lost  time  ? 

HOURTIN  [laughing]  I  shan't  try  to  convince  you. 
Time  will  do  that. 

BRIGNAC  [glass  in  hand]  In  one  way  I  'm  of  your 
mind.  I  firmly  believe  that  drink  is  a  social  evil,  and  I 


Act  I  Maternity  269 

fight  against  it.  For  poor  people,  who  are  underfed  and 
drink  adulterated  stuff.  That 's  different.  There  you  're 
right.  But  alcohol  is  only  bad  on  an  empty  stomach. 

HOURTIN.  Poor  empty  stomachs.  But  why  don't  you 
preach  sobriety  to  them,  instead  of  inciting  them  to  have 
children  ? 

BRIGNAC.     Don't  you  approve  of  that? 

HOURTIN.  My  own  opinion  is  that  the  poor  and  the 
sick  have  too  many  children  and  the  rich  not  enough. 

BRIGNAC.  But —  [To  Josephine,  who  enter s~\  What 
is  it? 

HOURTIN.  Then  I  '11  be  going.  [To  Lucie]  Till  to- 
morrow. 

BRIGNAC  [to  Josephine]  Show  him  in.  [To  Hourtin] 
Wait  a  moment  —  five  minutes  —  two  minutes  only.  I  '11 
show  you  a  workman  who  has  twelve  children.  Let 's  see 
what  you  say  to  that.  [To  Fechain]  Come  in,  my 
friend,  come  in. 

Enter  Fechain,  a  man  of  fifty,  dressed  in  a  -workman's 
Sunday  clothes.  Where  he  stands  on  coming  in  he  is 
unable  to  see  Hourtin. 

FECHAIN.    Good-day,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

LUCIE  [to  Madeleine]     What  a  gay  old  thing! 

MADELEINE.    Ha,  ha ! 

BRIGNAC.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here  in  my  house  and 
in  the  midst  of  my  family,  and  I  congratulate  you  as  a 
living  example  of  the  fulfilment  of  duty.  Give  me  your 
hand. 

FECHAIN.     Here  you  are,  sir.     [They  shake  hands]. 

BRIGNAC.    What 's  your  name? 

FECHAIN.     Fechain. 

BRIGNAC.    Do  you  live  at  Chartres  ? 

FECHAIN.    Yes,  sir,  close  by,  in  the  valley. 

BRIGNAC.    What  are  you  by  trade? 

FECHAIN.     I  do  a  job  here  and  a  job  there. 

BRIGNAC.    And  you  have  twelve  children? 


270  Maternity  Act  I 

FECHAIN.    The  thirteenth  coming,  too. 

BRIGNAC.    What !     My  best  congratulations. 

MADELEINE.  Your  wife  might  have  some  of  the  con- 
gratulations as  well. 

FECHAIN.  Thank  you,  ma'am.  I  '11  tell  her  what  you 
say. 

MADELEINE.    Is  she  in  good  health? 

FECHAIN.    Perfect. 

BRIGNAC.  That 's  fine.  You  're  a  grand  fellow,  a  real 
example  of  public  virtue. 

FECHAIN.  It 's  just  the  way  I  'm  made,  so  I  can't 
help  it.  [Laughing  with  stupid  vanity]  Aha,  if  only 
everyone  were  like  you  or  me !  The  way  you  talked, 
you  know!  Why  number  thirteen  had  to  be  on  the  way 
after  that.  How  many  have  you? 

BRIGNAC.    Two. 

FECHAIN  [making  a  face]  What !  what !  Oh,  you 
must  make  up  for  lost  time. 

MADELEINE  [to  Lucie,  low]     Nasty  old  beast! 

BRIGNAC  [a  little  awkwardly]  There,  splendid! 
You  're  the  right  sort.  Come  and  see  me  again  some 
day.  If  you  want  a  recommendation  —  [He  takes  him 
to  the  door]. 

FECHAIN.     Thank  you  kindly. 

BRIGNAC.     Good-bye. 

FECHAIN.  If  I  might  make  so  bold,  sir,  could  you  lend 
me  twenty-eight  francs  ?  I  'm  a  bit  behind  with  my  rent. 

BRIGNAC.  I  '11  lay  your  request  before  the  town  au- 
thority and  second  it  warmly,  I  promise  you. 

MADELEINE.  But  perhaps  he  's  in  need  of  it  at  once. 
[To  Fechain]  Give  me  your  address  and  I  '11  bring  you 
the  money.  I  shall  be  glad  to  pay  my  respects  to  that 
fine  wife  of  yours. 

FECHAIN.  Oh,  ma'am ;  but  you  'd  be  likely  to  miss 
her.  She  's  often  out  of  the  house. 

MADELEINE.  That  does  n't  matter.  I  shall  see  the 
children,  anyway.  Where  do  you  live? 


Act  I  Maternity  271 

FECHAIN.  You  're  very  kind,  but  I  should  n't  like  a 
lady  like  you  to  come  to  our  sort  of  place.  My  land- 
lord '11  wait  so  long  as  he  knows  that  M.  Brignac  is  going 
to  help  me.  Thank  you  all  the  same. 

HOUR-TIN  [to  Brignac]  Let  me  say  a  word  to  this 
fellow.  I  feel  sure  I  've  seen  him  somewhere.  [Brignac 
nods.  To  Fechain]  Pardon  me  — 

FECHAIN  [starting]     Oh!     Good-day,  doctor. 

HOURTIN.  Ah,  I  thought  so !  I  was  sure  I  knew  you. 
You  were  working  at  the  hospital  once? 

FECHAIN.     Yes,  sir. 

HOURTIN.    Quite  so.    No ;  you  do  not  live  at  Chartres. 

FECHAIN  [after  a  silence]  No,  sir.  I  live  at  Paris. 
Only  when  I  see  there  's  to  be  a  meeting  like  this  not 
far  away,  I  go  to  it.  I  'm  a  poor  man,  and  then  — 

HOURTIN.    Then  you  get  a  loan  from  the  chairman? 

FECHAIN.     If  I  can.     Sometimes  I  'm  asked  to  dinner. 

HOURTIN.    Is  it  true  you  have  twelve  children? 

FECHAIN  [smiling]  That?  Oh,  yes;  I've  got  the 
proofs.  [He  takes  some  papers  from  his  pocket]  Here 
are  their  birth  certificates,  all  twelve.  I  always  have 
them  about  me  —  never  go  without  them  —  so  as  I  can 
show  them.  You  can  count  them. 

HOURTIN  [taking  the  papers]  Do  all  your  children 
live  with  you? 

FECHAIN.  Oh,  no.  Why  there  are  n't  more  than  seven 
left. 

HOURTIN.     The  others  are  dead? 

FECHAIN.    Poor  folks  can't  hope  to  keep  all  they  have. 

HOURTIN.  When  you  had  had  five,  you  must  have  seen 
that  you  could  n't  support  them  ? 

FECHAIN.    Of  course. 

HOURTIN.    And  you  had  more  all  the  same? 

FECHAIN.  We  could  n't  have  been  worse  off  than  we 
were.  One  more  or  less  makes  no  odds;  and  then,  after 
seven,  things  are  easier. 


272  Maternity  Act  I 

HOURTIN.     How  's  that  ? 

FECHAIN.  This  way.  If  you  have  three  or  four  chil- 
dren, no  one  bothers  about  you,  you  're  like  everyone 
else;  but  with  seven  or  eight,  then  they  have  to  help 
you.  Relief  charities,  or  the  authorities,  or  just  people, 
that 's  all  one.  They  dare  n't  say  no.  If  you  have  ten, 
then  it 's  first  class.  Only  you  must  n't  mind  moving. 
But  there,  there 's  nothing  to  be  had  for  nothing,  is 
there  ? 

HOURTIN.  How  many  of  your  children  are  living 
with  you? 

FECHAIN.    Two. 

HOURTIN.     And  the  other  five? 

FECHAIN.  The  two  girls  are  big  enough  to  do  for 
themselves.  The  other  three  are  in  hospital.  [  A 
silence]. 

HOURTIN  [looking  at  the  papers]  All  your  children 
are  not  of  the  same  mother,  I  see. 

FECHAIN.  No;  I  've  been  a  widower  twice.  Oh,  yes; 
I  've  had  my  troubles.  This  is  my  third.  It 's  her 
fourth  she  's  expecting. 

MADELEINE  [after  a  pause,  to  Lucie]  A  man  like  that 
ought  to  be  shut  up. 

HOURTIN  [giving  him  back  the  papers]     Thank  you. 

FECHAIN.  Good-day,  sir.  Good-day,  ladies.  [To 
Brignac]  You  couldn't  just  let  me  have  the  money  for 
the  railway  and  my  ticket  to  the  meeting  ?  It 's  only 
just  a  trifle. 

HOURTIN   [giving  him  some  money]     There! 

FECHAIN.     Thank  you  kindly,  sir.     [He  goes  out], 

HOURTIN  [taking  leave]  You  see!  Children  who 
cannot  be  kept  ought  not  to  be  born.  And  I  would  add 
that  those  who  are  born  ought  to  be  properly  kept. 

BRIGNAC.  A  pretext  that  would  justify  the  shirking 
of  all  duty.  It 's  impossible  to  see  ahead  like  that. 

HOURTIN.    You  don't  ask  more  people  to  dinner  than 


Act  I  Maternity  273 

you  have  room  for,  nor  before  dinner  is  ready.  It  will 
be  time  to  think  of  increasing  our  population  when  our 
housing  and  means  of  livelihood  are  up  to  the  mark  of 
our  existing  needs. 

BRIGNAC.  But  each  new  generation  is  itself  a  means 
of  production. 

HOURTIN.  Certainly.  I  only  ask  that  the  poor  should 
have  few  children  and  the  degenerate  none.  No  child 
ought  to  be  brought  into  the  world  handicapped  by  ill- 
ness or  want. 

BRIGNAC.  And  as  the  result  of  your  precautions  our 
country  would  fall  in  point  of  population  to  a  fifth  or  a 
tenth  rate  power. 

HOURTIN  [at  the  door]  History  teaches  us  that  not 
even  military  supremacy  belongs  to  the  largest  nations. 
M.  de  Marigny's  reflection,  not  mine.  [Bowing  to  the 
ladies]  Till  to-morrow.  [Shaking  Brignac's  hand]  And 
when  you  have  a  moment,  just  consider  how  society  be- 
haves to  the  mothers  of  whom  it  demands  children. 
You'll  find  that  an  entertaining  subject  —  unless  it 
makes  you  cry.  Good-bye. 

LUCIE  [showing  him  out]  Then  you  will  really  come 
to  see  my  babies? 

HOURTIN.  Most  certainly.  [Lucie  goes  out  with 
him]. 

MADELEINE.  Well,  my  dear  brother-in-law,  what  do 
you  say  to  that? 

BRIGNAC  [shrugging  his  shoulders]  Oh,  if  I  had 
wanted  to  answer  him  — 

MADELEINE.    Why  didn't  you? 

BRIGNAC.  Surely  you  can  see  that  I  was  not  going 
to  annoy  a  man  whom  we  want  to  consult  professionally. 
[A  pause.  He  looks  at  his  watch.  Lucie  returns]  Well, 
five  o'clock.  I  'm  off  to  the  club  for  my  game  of  domi- 
noes. Ta,  ta!  You  dine  here,  Madeleine,  of  course? 

MADELEINE.    No;   I  can't.    We  Ve  some  official  people 


274  Maternity  Act  I 

to  go  to  in  the  evening.  But  I  '11  look  in  for  news  of 
the  chicks. 

BRIGNAC.  Very  well.  I  '11  upset  all  Dr.  Hourtin's 
theories  for  you  in  five  seconds.  You  wait  and  see. 

MADELEINE.    All  right. 

BRIGNAC.    Good-bye.     [He  goes  out]. 

MADELEINE.    Annette  not  back  yet? 

LUCIE.     She  won't  be  long  now. 

MADELEINE.  Lucie,  don't  you  think  perhaps  she  goes 
rather  too  often  to  the  Bernins  ? 

LUCIE.     Gabrielle  's  her  best  friend. 

MADELEINE.     Hm !    yes. 

LUCIE.  They  're  both  so  keen  on  music.  Besides,  the 
poor  little  dear  does  n't  get  too  much  fun.  It 's  dull  for 
her  here.  I  can  see  she  feels  it,  particularly  lately.  She 
only  brightens  up  when  she  goes  to  see  Gabrielle. 

MADELEINE.     Yes;   but  that  girl  has  a  brother. 

LUCIE.     Jacques. 

MADELEINE.     Just  so;    Jacques. 

LUCIE.  Have  you  heard  people  talking  about  Annette 
in  connection  with  him? 

MADELEINE.  No.  Well,  then,  yes;  I  have.  Listen, 
dear.  We  're  rather  peculiarly  placed,  are  n't  we  ? 
Three  orphan  girls.  I  'm  married  twice,  though  I  'm 
only  twenty-eight,  and  you  're  married  for  the  first 
time. 

LUCIE.    And  for  the  last,  I  should  hope. 

MADELEINE  [laughing]     Tut,  tut! 

LUCIE  [laughing  too]     Monster! 

MADELEINE.  Then  you  took  our  youngest  sister  to 
live  with  you.  A  perfect  arrangement,  so  long  as  you 
look  after  her  as  you  would  after  your  own  girl,  or  as 
mother  would  have  done. 

LUCIE.     She  's  eighteen. 

MADELEINE.     That 's  just  it. 

LUCIE.    I  don't  see  what  danger  there  is  for  Annette. 


Act  I  Maternity  275 

MADELEINE.  Nor  do  I.  But  we  're  not  alone  in  the 
world.  As  it  is,  people  look  astonished  —  of  course  it 's 
a  silly  little  provincial  place  —  at  her  going  out  alone. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  to  see  Gabrielle,  five  minutes  off! 

MADELEINE.  I  know,  I  know !  Tell  me,  do  you  think 
that  the  Bernin  boy  would  be  a  possible  match  for 
Annette  ? 

LUCIE.     I  never  thought  about  it.    Well,  why  not? 

MADELEINE.    Hm !   hm ! 

LUCIE.  He  's  about  the  right  age.  He  seems  to  be 
a  good  fellow. 

MADELEINE.     Oh,  yes. 

LUCIE.     His  family  is  well  enough. 

MADELEINE.    And  —  the  money  ? 

LUCIE.  Yes ;  that 's  true.  The  Bernins  are  rich  and 
Annette  has  nothing.  Yes ;  you  're  right.  She  was 
going  to  spend  a  week  with  them  in  the  country.  I  '11 
find  an  excuse  for  her  not  going.  Perhaps  I  had  better 
say  something  to  her  about  it. 

MADELEINE.  There  's  no  hurry;  but  we  must  see  that 
no  harm  happens  to  our  little  pet. 

LUCIE.    Good  heavens  !    I  should  never  forgive  myself. 

Annette,  fair,  eighteen  years  old,  runs  in,  overflowing 
•with  joy. 

ANNETTE.  What  luck!  Madeleine,  too!  Here,  Jo- 
sephine !  [She  throws  her  hat  to  Josephine,  who  drops 
it  on  the  floor]  Oh,  stupid!  [Recovering  herself]  All 
right,  there!  Don't  be  cross,  Fifine.  [She  kisses  Jo- 
sephine and  shoves  her  out]. 

LUCIE.     What 's  the  matter  ? 

MADELEINE.    Why  so  radiant? 

ANNETTE.    Yes,  I  am !    I  am !    Oh,  I  'm  so  happy ! 

LUCIE.     Is  that  why  you  kissed  Josephine? 

ANNETTE.  Josephine !  Why,  I  could  have  kissed  the 
passers-by  in  the  street! 

MADELEINE  [laughing]   Our  little  girl 's  gone  cracked. 


276  Maternity  Act  I 

ANNETTE.  No,  no ;  only  —  oh,  I  'm  so  happy !  [She 
bursts  into  a  fit  of  sobbing], 

LUCIE.    Annette,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

MADELEINE.    Annette ! 

ANNETTE  [through  her  tears]  Oh,  I  am  happy, 
happy ! 

LUCIE.  She  '11  make  herself  ill.  Madeleine,  call 
someone. 

ANNETTE.  No,  no;  don't  worry.  Don't  say  any- 
thing. It 's  only  my  nerves.  [Laughing  and  crying  at 
the  same  time]  Oh,  I  am  happy,  only  —  how  silly  to 
cry  like  that !  But  I  can't  help  it.  [She  puts  her  arm 
round  Lucie's  neck,  who  is  kneeling  beside  her,  and 
draws  Madeleine's  head  towards  her]  Lucie,  darling ! 
Madeleine,  dearest!  [She  kisses  them,  then  sobs  again] 
How  silly !  It 's  no  good ;  I  must.  There  [she  dries  her 
eyes],  there!  Now  I  can  tell  you.  [With  a  pure  look  of 
deeply  felt  happiness]  I  'm  going  to  be  married.  M. 
and  Madame  Bernin  are  coming. 

LUCIE.    Why  ? 

ANNETTE.  Because  they  're  going  to  the  country  to- 
morrow. 

MADELEINE.     They're  going  away? 

ANNETTE.    Yes;   Jacques  has  told  them. 

LUCIE.     Jacques  ? 

ANNETTE  [in  a  sudden  rush]  Yes.  It  all  happened 
like  that,  with  our  music  —  Gabrielle  and  me.  That  was 
how,  and  he  guessed  everything.  He  sings  tenor  —  oh, 
not  very  well.  Once  [with  a  laugh]  —  but  I  '11  tell  you 
later.  That  was  how  it  came  about;  and  we're  to  be 
married  soon.  [Crying  again,  then  gravely  pressing 
Lucie  to  her]  I  love  him  so !  Oh,  if  you  only  knew ! 
If  he  had  n't  married  me,  it  would  have  been  so  dread- 
ful! You  don't  understand? 

MADELEINE  [smiling]     Perhaps  we  can  guess. 

ANNETTE.  Shall  I  tell  you  everything,  everything 
from  the  beginning? 


Act  I  Maternity  277 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

ANNETTE.    I  should  love  to  tell  you.    You  won't  mind  ? 

MADELEINE.    Go  on. 

ANNETTE.  It  was  like  that,  when  Gabrielle  and  I 
were  playing  duets.  At  first  I  hated  him  because  he 
always  laughs  at  everything,  but  at  bottom  he  's  good. 
Do  you  know  what  he  once  — 

LUCIE.     Never  mind  that.     Go  on  about  the  music. 

ANNETTE.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Gabrielle  and  I 
used  to  play  duets.  He  used  to  come  and  listen  to  us. 
He  stood  behind  and  turned  over  the  pages.  Then  once 
he  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  — 

MADELEINE.    And  you  did  n't  say  anything? 

ANNETTE.  He  had  his  other  hand  on  Gabrielle's.  I 
should  have  looked  so  idiotic. 

LUCIE.     Gabrielle  's  not  the  same  thing. 

ANNETTE.  Just  what  I  was  going  to  say.  My  heart 
beat  so  hard  and  I  felt  my  face  all  scarlet,  that  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  playing.  Then  another  time,  when  he 
could  n't  follow,  he  bent  right  over.  Oh,  but  I  can't  tell 
you  everything,  little  by  little.  We  love  one  another, 
that 's  all. 

MADELEINE.    And  he  has  told  you  that  he  loves  you? 

ANNETTE  [gravely]     Yes. 

LUCIE.  And  you  kept  all  that  from  me !  That  was  n't 
right,  Annette. 

ANNETTE.  Oh,  forgive  me;  but  it  came  about  so 
gradually,  I  could  hardly  say  when  it  began.  I  said  to 
myself  that  it  could  n't  be  true,  and  when  —  when  we 
did  tell  one  another  what  we  had  n't  ever  said,  though 
we  knew  it  ourselves,  then  I  knew  I  'd  done  wrong,  only 
I  was  so  ashamed  that  I  could  n't  tell  you  about  it. 

LUCIE  [gently]     But  it  was  wrong,  my  little  pet. 

ANNETTE.  Oh,  don't  scold  me !  Please,  please,  don't ! 
If  you  knew  how  I  've  been  feeling  —  oh,  how  dreadfully 
badly !  You  did  n't  notice. 


278  Maternity  Act  I 

LUCIE.    Yes,  I  did. 

MADELEINE.    Has  he  spoken  to  his  parents? 

ANNETTE.     Oh,  a  long  time  ago. 

LUCIE.     They  consent? 

ANNETTE.     They  're  coming  here  this  afternoon. 

MADELEINE.     Why  didn't  they  come  sooner? 

ANNETTE.  Because  —  Jacques  told  them  you  see ;  but 
they  did  n't  want  it  talked  about.  They  wanted  Ga- 
brielle  to  get  married  first.  So  we  agreed  that  I  should 
seem  not  to  think  they  knew  anything  about  it.  Then 
to-day  I  met  Jacques  in  the  street  — 

LUCIE.     In  the  street ! 

ANNETTE.  Yes.  He  's  given  up  coming  to  the  music, 
so  I  meet  him  — 

LUCIE.     In  the  street! 

ANNETTE.  As  a  rule,  we  only  bow  to  each  other;  but 
to-day,  as  he  passed  me  he  said:  "  My  parents  are  going 
to  your  sister's  to-day."  He  was  quite  pale.  Don't  scold 
me,  please !  I  'm  so  happy !  Do  forgive  me ! 

MADELEINE  [to  Lucie,  who  looks  silently  at  Annette'] 
Come,  forgive  her. 

LUCIE  [kissing  her]  Oh,  yes,  I  forgive  her.  So  you 
want  to  leave  us,  bad  girl? 

ANNETTE.    Yes.     I  am  bad  and  ungrateful,  I  know. 

LUCIE.     Hush,  hush!     Nonsense! 

MADELEINE.  Marriage  is  a  serious  thing,  Annette. 
Are  you  sure  that  your  characters  agree  together  ? 

ANNETTE.  Oh,  yes,  yes !  Why,  we  've  quarrelled 
already ! 

LUCIE.    What  about? 

ANNETTE.    About  a  book  he  lent  me. 

MADELEINE.    What  book? 

ANNETTE.  Anna  Karenina.  He  liked  Vronsky  better 
than  Levine.  He  said  such  silly  things.  And  he  could  n't 
understand  Anna  Karenina  killing  herself  —  you  know 
—  when  she  throws  herself  underneath  the  train  that 
he  's  in.  You  remember,  don't  you  ? 


Act  I  Maternity  279 

LUCIE.     And  then? 

ANNETTE.  Then  —  there  's  the  bell.  Perhaps  it 's 
them. 

A  pause.    Josephine  enters  with  a  card. 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

ANNETTE.    Oh,  heavens! 

LUCIE.  Madeleine,  take  Annette.  Go  through  her 
room. 

MADELEINE.    All  right. 

LUCIE  [to  Josephine]     Show  Madame  Bernin  in. 

ANNETTE  [to  Lucie]     Don't  be  long. 

Annette  goes  out  with  Madeleine.  Lucie  arranges  her- 
self before  a  glass.  Josephine  shows  in  Madame  Bernin. 

LUCIE.     How  do  you  do? 

MME.  BERNIN.     How  are  you? 

LUCIE.    Very  well,  thank  you.    And  you? 

MME.  BERNIN.  I  need  not  ask  news  of  M.  Brignac. 
I  know  he  is  busy  fighting  the  good  fight. 

LUCIE.     And  M.  Bernin? 

MME.  BERNIN.  He  's  very  well,  thanks.  I  hope  your 
children  — 

LUCIE.    About  the  same.    But  won't  you  sit  down? 

MME.  BERNIN.     Thank  you.     What  lovely  weather! 

LUCIE.    Yes;  is  n't  it? 

MME.  BERNIN.  I  hear  there  was  a  large  audience  at 
M.  Brignac's  meeting. 

LUCIE.    Yes,  indeed. 

MME.  BERNIN.    In  spite  of  the  heat. 

LUCIE.  You  are  happy  to  be  able  to  go  to  the  country. 
Annette  was  so  delighted  to  get  your  kind  invitation. 

MME.  BERNIN.  That  was  precisely  my  object  in  call- 
ing here  to-day  —  apart  from  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
—  to  talk  about  that  plan  of  ours. 

LUCIE.    And  about  another  one,  I  think? 

MME.  BERNIN.    Another? 

LUCIE.    No? 


280  Maternity  Act  I 

MME.  BERNIN.  No;  I  don't  know  what  you  are  re- 
ferring to. 

LUCIE.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  then.  Please  go  on. 
About  Annette? 

MME.  BERNIN.  My  daughter  has  had  an  invitation  to 
join  our  cousins,  the  Guibals,  for  some  time,  and  we  ab- 
solutely cannot  refuse  to  send  Gabrielle  to  them.  So 
I  came  to  ask  you  to  excuse  us,  as  Gabrielle  will  not  be 
there. 

LUCIE.    Will  you  forgive  me  for  being  indiscreet? 

MME.  BERNIN.     I  am  sure  you  could  n't  be. 

LUCIE.  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  is  it  long  since  Gabrielle 
received  this  invitation? 

MME.  BERNIN.    About  a  week. 

LUCIE.    Indeed ! 

MME.  BERNIN.    Why  should  that  surprise  you? 

LUCIE.     She  said  nothing  about  it  to  Annette. 

MME.  BERNIN.  She  was  probably  afraid  of  disap- 
pointing her. 

LUCIE.  Only  yesterday  Annette  was  telling  me  of  all 
the  excursions  that  your  daughter  had  planned  to  make 
with  her.  Please,  please,  tell  me  the  truth !  This  invi- 
tation is  merely  an  excuse ;  I  feel  convinced  it  is.  Please 
tell  me!  Annette  is  only  my  sister,  but  I  love  her  as 
though  she  were  my  child.  Think  it 's  her  mother  who 
is  speaking  to  you.  I  won't  try  to  be  clever.  I  'm  not 
going  to  stand  on  my  dignity.  This  is  what  has  hap- 
pened. Annette  believes  that  your  son  loves  her,  and 
when  your  card  was  brought  in  she  imagined  that  you 
had  come  to  ask  her  for  him.  Now  you  know  every- 
thing that  I  know,  and  I  beg  you  to  talk  as  candidly  to 
me,  so  that  we  may  avoid  as  much  unhappiness  as 
possible. 

MME.  BERNIN.  You  have  spoken  to  me  so  simply  and 
feelingly  that  I  can't  help  answering  openly  —  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  Yes,  then,  this  invitation  to  Ga- 


Act  I  Maternity  281 

brielle  is  only  an  excuse.  We  have  invented  it  to  prevent 
Jacques  and  Annette  from  meeting  again. 

LUCIE.     You  don't  want  them  to  meet  again? 

MME.  BERNIN.  No;  because  I  don't  want  them  to 
marry. 

LUCIE.     Because  Annette  is  poor? 

MME.  BERNIN  [hesitates,  then]  Well,  since  we  have 
agreed  to  be  perfectly  candid,  that  is  the  reason. 

LUCIE.  You  would  not  consent  to  the  idea  of  their 
marrying? 

MME.  BERNIN.    No. 

LUCIE.    Is  that  absolutely  final? 

MME.  BERNIN.     Absolutely  final. 

LUCIE.     Because  Annette  has  no  dowry? 

MME.  BERNIN.     Yes. 

LUCIE.  But  your  son  knew  that  she  was  poor.  It 's 
monstrous  of  him  to  have  made  her  love  him. 

MME.  BERNIN.  If  he  had  acted  as  you  describe,  I 
admit  it  would  be  monstrous.  But  he  had  no  intention 
of  engaging  her  affections.  Annette  was  a  friend  of  his 
sister's.  I  am  sure  he  had  no  idea  in  meeting  her  beyond 
that  of  simple  good  comradeship.  Very  likely  he  went 
on  to  pay  her  some  attention;  indeed  he  might  well  have 
been  attracted  by  her.  Your  sweet  little  Annette,  who  is 
the  most  innocent  of  creatures,  has  fallen  more  easily 
and  more  deeply,  perhaps,  in  love.  Innocence  like  hers 
is  closely  akin  to  ignorance.  But  that  my  son  has  more 
to  reproach  himself  with !  You  can  easily  see  that  he 
has  not,  because  it  was  he  who  told  me  about  it  himself. 

LUCIE.    How  long  ago? 

MME.  BERNIN.  Just  now.  He  told  me  that  he  was  in 
love  with  Annette,  as  she,  no  doubt,  thinks  herself  with 
him ;  and,  in  fact,  he  begged  me  to  come  and  ask  for  her 
hand. 

LUCIE.     Only  to-day? 

MME.  BERNIN.    A  couple  of  hours  since. 


282  Maternity  Act  I 

LUCIE.  Annette  implored  him  to  tell  you.  He  said  he 
had  already  done  so  and  that  you  had  given  your  consent. 

MME.  BERNIN.     Never! 

LUCIE.    A  month  ago. 

MME.  BERNIN.  Until  to-day  he  never  said  anything 
to  me. 

LUCIE.    Annette  told  me  so  herself! 

MME.  BERNIN.     He  never  said  anything  to  me. 

LUCIE.     Do  you  mean  that  she  lied? 

MME.  BERNIN.     He  never  said  anything  to  me. 

LUCIE.    Do  you  think  her  truthful  ? 

MME.  BERNIN.    Yes. 

LUCIE.    Candid,  honest? 

MME.  BERNIN.    Yes. 

LUCIE.    Well,  then? 

MME.  BERNIN.  Well,  it  is  possible  that  he  did  not 
tell  her  the  truth.  After  all,  he  's  a  man. 

LUCIE.    And  in  love,  men  have  the  right  to  lie? 

MME.  BERNIN.    They  think  so. 

LUCIE.  And  when  you  told  him  to  give  up  Annette,  he 
agreed  ? 

MME.  BERNIN.  Yes,  he  did.  He  is  a  sensible,  practi- 
cal fellow,  and  he  could  not  help  seeing  the  force  of  what 
I  said.  He  realizes  that  however  hard  it  may  be  for 
him  to  break  with  Annette,  it  is  necessary.  I  need 
hardly  say  he  feels  it  keenly,  but  at  these  children's  age 
feelings  change. 

LUCIE.  I  see.  A  week  hence  your  son  won't  think 
of  her.  But  she? 

MME.  BERNIN.     She  will  forget  him,  too. 

LUCIE.  I  don't  know  about  that.  Oh,  my  poor  dar- 
ling! If  you  could  have  seen  her  here  just  now  when 
she  came  to  tell  us!  She  cried  with  joy!  It's  not  for 
joy  that  she'll  cry  now.  Oh,  my  God!  [She  breaks 
into  tears]. 

MME.  BERNIN   [moved]     Oh,  don't!     Please,  please! 


Act  I  Maternity  283 

I  understand  your  grief;  indeed  I  do.  Ah,  if  it  were 
possible,  how  happy  it  would  make  me  for  Annette  to 
marry  my  boy.  I  tell  you  I  have  had  to  stop  myself 
from  loving  her.  What  a  contrast  to  the  girl  he  will 
have  to  marry  —  tiresome,  affected  creature ! 

LUCIE.  If  what  you  say  is  true,  are  n't  you  rich 
enough  to  let  your  son  marry  a  poor  girl? 

MMK.  BERNIN.  No;  we  are  not  so  well  off  as  people 
suppose.  And  then  we  must  give  Gabrielle  a  dowry. 

LUCIE.  You  '11  find  her  a  husband  who  will  want  her 
for  herself. 

MME.  BERNIN.  Even  if  we  did,  which  I  doubt,  I 
would  not  desire  a  man  like  that  for  her,  because  he  would 
be  blind  to  the  realities  of  the  situation.  Gabrielle  has 
not  been  brought  up  to  poverty,  but  to  a  life  of  luxurious 
surroundings. 

LUCIE.     Give  your  children  an  equal  amount,  then. 

MME.  BERNIN.  All  that  we  can  give  Gabrielle  will  not 
be  too  much.  Life  is  hard,  and  becomes  a  harder  struggle 
every  day.  Young  men  tend  to  ask  more  with  their 
wives,  because  they  know  the  power  of  money  in  the  keen 
competition  of  modern  existence. 

LUCIE.  Oh,  yes;  they  know  it!  Their  creed  is  to 
have  enjoyment  as  soon  as  possible,  without  making 
the  least  sacrifice  for  it,  and  a  fig  for  gentleness  or 
emotion ! 

MME.  BERNIN.  You  may  be  right.  I  want  Gabri- 
elle to  be  rich  because  riches  will  attract  more  bidders 
for  her  hand,  so  that  she  will  have  more  choice. 

LUCIE.  You  have  to  speak  of  it  even  like  a  business 
transaction. 

MME.  BERNIN.  Consequently  there  will  be  little 
or  nothing  for  Jacques. 

LUCIE.     People  who  have  no  money  work. 

MME.  BERNIN.  He  has  not  been  brought  up  to 
work. 


284  Maternity  Act  I 

LUCIE.     Then  he  ought  to  have  been. 

MME.  BEKNIN.  The  professions  are  already  over- 
stocked. Do  you  propose  that  he  should  become  a 
clerk  at  two  hundred  francs  a  month?  He  and  his 
wife  would  n't  be  able  to  keep  a  servant. 

LUCIE.     There  are  clerks  who  get  more  than  that. 

MME.  BERNIN.  Even  if  he  got  five  hundred,  would 
that  enable  him  to  keep  up  his  social  position?  Of 
course  it  would  not.  He  would  owe  his  inferiority  to 
his  wife,  and  would  soon  begin  to  reproach  her  with 
it.  And  have  you  thought  about  their  children?  They 
would  have  just  enough  to  send  their  son  to  the  prim- 
ary school  and  make  their  daughter  a  post  office  clerk. 
Even  for  that  they  would  be  terribly  pinched. 

LUCIE.     Yes. 

MME.  BERNIN.  You  see  I  'm  right.  I  can't  say  I  'm 
proud  to  confess  so  much,  but  what  are  we  to  do?  Life 
is  ordered  by  things  as  they  are,  not  like  a  novel.  We 
live  in  a  shrewd,  vain,  selfish  world. 

LUCIE.  You  despise  it  and  yet  sacrifice  everything 
to  it. 

MME.  BERNIN.  I  know  that  everybody's  happiness 
practically  depends  on  the  consideration  he  has  in  it. 
Only  exceptional  people  can  disregard  social  conven- 
tions, and  Jacques  is  not  an  exception. 

LUCIE.  If  I  were  you,  I  don't  think  I  should  be 
proud  of  it.  If  he  were  a  little  more  than  common- 
place, his  love  would  give  him  strength  to  stand  up 
against  the  jeers  of  the  crowd. 

MME.  BERNIN.  His  love!  Love  passes,  poverty 
stays ;  you  know  the  proverb.  Beauty  fades ;  want 
grows. 

LUCIE.  But  you  yourself  —  you  and  your  husband 
are  the  living  proof  that  one  can  marry  poor  and 
make  money!  Everyone  knows  how  your  husband 
began  as  a  small  clerk,  then  started  in  a  small  busi- 


Act  I  Maternity  285 

ness  of  his  own,  then  won  success.  If  that  spells  hap- 
piness, you  and  he  must  be  happy. 

MME.  BERNIN.  No;  we  have  not  been  happy,  be- 
cause we  have  used  ourselves  up  with  hunting  for  hap- 
piness. We  meant  to  "  get  there " ;  we  have  "  got 
there,"  but  at  what  a  price!  Oh,  I  know  the  road  to 
fortune.  At  first  miserable,  sordid  economy,  passion- 
ate greed;  then  the  fierce  struggle  of  trickery  and 
deceit,  always  flattering  your  customers,  always  living 
in  terror  of  failure.  Tears,  lies,  envy,  contempt. 
Suffering  for  yourself  and  for  everyone  round  you. 
I  've  been  through  it,  and  a  bitter  experience  it  was. 
We  're  determined  that  our  children  shan't.  Our  chil- 
dren! We  have  had  only  two,  but  we  meant  to  have 
only  one.  That  extra  one  meant  double  toil  and  hard- 
ship. Instead  of  being  a  husband  and  wife  helping 
one  another,  we  have  been  two  business  partners,  watch- 
ing each  other  like  enemies,  perpetually  quarrelling, 
even  on  our  pillow,  over  our  expenditures  or  our  mis- 
takes. Finally  we  succeeded;  and  now  we  can't  enjoy 
our  wealth  because  we  don't  know  how  to  use  it,  and 
because  our  later  years  are  poisoned  by  memories  of 
the  hateful  past  of  suffering  and  rancor.  No;  I  shall 
never  expose  my  children  to  that  struggle.  I  only 
stood  it  to  preserve  them  from  it.  Good-bye. 

LUCIE.     Good-bye. 

Madame  Bernin  goes  out.  After  a  moment  Lucie 
goes  slowly  to  Annette's  door  and  opens  it. 

ANNETTE  [coming  in]  You  've  been  crying !  It 's 
because  I  'm  going  away,  is  n't  it  ?  There  's  nothing 
to  prevent  us,  is  there?  [With  rising  emotion']  Lucie, 
tell  me  there  's  nothing ! 

LUCIE.     You  love  him  so  much? 

ANNETTE.  If  we  were  not  to  be  married,  I  should 
die. 

LUCIE.  No ;  you  would  n't.  Have  all  the  little  girls 
who  said  that  died? 


286  Maternity  Act  I 

ANNETTE.  But  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  us,  is 
there  ? 

LUCIE.    No,  no! 

ANNETTE.  And  when  is  it  to  be?  Did  you  talk  of 
that? 

LUCIE.  My  dear,  my  dear,  what  a  state  you  're  in ! 
You  really  must  be  less  nervous. 

ANNETTE  [restraining  herself]  Yes,  sweet,  yes; 
I  'm  a  little  crazy. 

LUCIE.      I    think   you   are. 

ANNETTE.  Tell  me,  then,  everything!  How  did  she 
begin  ? 

LUCIE.  Are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  leave  me?  You 
don't  love  me  any  more? 

ANNETTE  [gravely]  Oh,  if  I  had  n't  got  you,  what 
would  become  of  me?  [A  silence]  But  you're  not 
telling  me  anything.  There  must  be  something.  You  're 
keeping  the  truth  from  me.  If  there  was  n't  something, 
you  'd  say  there  was  n't  —  you  would  n't  try  to  put 
me  off  —  you  'd  tell  me  just  what  Madame  Bernin  said. 

LUCIE.     Well,  then,  there  is  something. 

ANNETTE    [breaking   into   tears]      Oh,   heavens ! 

LUCIE.  You  're  both  very  young.  You  must  wait.  A 
year,  perhaps  longer. 

ANNETTE    [crying]     Wait!     A  year! 

LUCIE.  Come,  come,  you  must  not  be  so  uncontrolled, 
Annette.  You  '11  make  me  displeased  with  you.  Why, 
you  are  barely  nineteen.  If  you  wait  to  be  married  till 
you  are  twenty,  there  '11  be  no  great  harm. 

ANNETTE.     It  is  n't  possible. 

LUCIE.  Not  possible?  [  With  a  long  look  at  her] 
Annette,  you  frighten  me !  If  it  were  not  you  —  [  With 
tender  gravity]  I  can't  have  been  wrong  to  trust  you? 

ANNETTE.  No,  no!  What  can  you  be  thinking  of? 
I  promise  you  — 

LUCIE.    What  is  it,  then? 


Act  I  Maternity  287 

ANNETTE.  Well,  I  've  been  foolish  enough  to  tell 
some  of  my  friends  that  I  was  engaged. 

LUCIE.    Before  telling  me  about  it? 

ANNETTE  [confused]  Don't  ask  me  any  more 
questions.  Please,  please  don't ! 

LUCIE.  Indeed,  I  must  scold  you.  You  deserve  it. 
You  have  hurt  me  very  much  by  not  letting  me  know 
what  was  going  on.  I  could  never  have  believed  that 
you  would  keep  me  so  in  the  dark,  whoever  had  said  it 
of  you.  I  thought  you  were  too  fond  of  me.  I  was 
wrong.  We  see  each  other  every  day,  all  the  time, 
and  you  could  still  hide  from  me  what  was  in  your 
heart.  It  was  very,  very  wrong  of  you.  Not  only 
because  I  am  your  elder  sister,  but  because  I  am  in 
mother's  place  towards  you.  And  then,  if  only  that, 
because  I  am  your  friend.  A  little  more,  and  I  should 
have  heard  of  your  engagement  from  strangers.  Well, 
my  dear,  you  've  made  a  bad  choice,  and  now  you  '11 
need  all  your  courage.  These  people  are  n't  worth  your 
tears.  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  everything.  They  don't 
want  you,  my  poor  dear ;  you  're  too  poor  for  them. 

ANNETTE  [staring]  They  don't  want  me!  They 
don't  want  me !  But  he  —  Jacques  —  he  knows  they 
don't? 

LUCIE.     Yes;    he  knows. 

ANNETTE.  He  '11  do  what  they  say,  if  they  tell  him 
to  give  me  up? 

LUCIE.     Yes. 

ANNETTE  [madly]  I  must  see  him!  I'll  write  to 
him !  I  must  see  him !  If  they  don't  want  me,  I  've 
nothing  but  to  kill  myself! 

LUCIE  [forcing  Annette  to  look  at  her]  Look  at 
me,  Annette !  [Silence.  Then  in  the  same  grave,  tender 
voice]  Have  you  not  a  secret  to  trust  me  with? 

ANNETTE  [disengaging  herself]  Don't  ask  me  any- 
thing [very  low],  or  I  shall  die  of  shame  at  your  feet. 


288  Maternity  Act  I 

Lucie  forces  her  to  sit  down  at  her  side  and  takes  her 
in  her  arms. 

LUCIE.  Come,  come  here,  in  my  arms.  So!  Put 
your  head  on  my  shoulder,  as  you  used  when  you  were 
tiny.  Tell  me,  what  is  it?  [Quite  low]  My  sweet, 
my  little  darling,  are  you  terribly,  terribly  unhappy? 
Speak  out,  from  your  heart,  as  you  would  to  our  poor 
mother ! 

ANNETTE  [very  low,  in  tears  of  shame]     Oh,  mother, 
if  you  knew  what  your  little  girl  had  done ! 
.    LUCIE  [almost  nursing  her]     Tell  me;   whisper,  quite 
low,  in  my  ear.     [She  rises  and  breaks  loose,  then  hides 
her  face  in  her  hands]     Oh,  you,  Annette,  you! 

ANNETTE  [on  her  knees,  her  arms  stretched  out]  For- 
give me !  Forgive  me !  My  dear  one,  forgive  me !  Oh, 
I  deserve  it  all,  everything  you  can  say;  but,  oh,  I  am 
so  unhappy ! 

LUCIE.     You,  Annette,  you! 

ANNETTE.  Forgive  me !  Do  you  want  me  to  be  sorry 
I  did  n't  kill  myself  without  telling  you  ?  Forgive  me ! 

LUCIE  [raising  her]  My  dear,  my  dear!  You've 
suffered  too  much  not  to  be  forgiven. 


ACT    II 

The  same  scene.    Evening.    Electric  Light. 

LUCIE.  Now  you  know.  I  sent  for  you  as  soon  as 
possible. 

MADELEINE  [who  is  in  evening  dress]  There  is  only 
one  thing  to  do.  Tell  your  husband  everything  and  make 
him  go  to  the  Bernins. 

LUCIE.     My  God! 

MADELEINE.  The  doctor  is  a  long  time  with  him.  I 
absolutely  must  go  to  this  party. 

LUCIE.     Yes,  go.     But  you'll  come  back? 

MADELEINE.  As  soon  as  I  can.  Don't  despair.  Poor 
little  Annette! 

LUCIE.     Do  you  think  — 

MADELEINE.     Good-bye  for  the  moment.     Don't  move. 

Madeleine  goes  out,  and  the  servant  is  seen  giving  her 
her  cloak.  Lucie,  alone,  walks  restlessly  to  and  fro.  As 
she  comes  to  the  door  of  Brignac's  study,  she  stops  to 
listen. 

LUCIE  [aloud,  to  herself]  How  loud  the  doctor 's 
speaking.  One  would  think  they  had  quarrelled. 

Fresh  pause.  The  study  door  opens.  Enter  Hourtin 
and  Brignac. 

BRIGNAC.  I  can  assure  you,  Dr.  Hourtin,  that  I  have 
reached  years  of  discretion. 

HOURTIN.  It  was  my  duty,  sir,  to  speak  to  you  as  I 
have  done. 

1289 


290  Maternity  Act  II 

BRIONAC  [showing  him  to  the  door,  drily"]  I  am 
obliged  to  you. 

HOURTIN.  I  have  something  else  to  say  to  Madame 
Brignac. 

BRIGNAC.    About  me? 

HOURTIN.  About  herself  and  the  children;  but  if 
you  obj  ect  — 

BRIONAC.    I  hardly  imagine  it  is  indispensable. 

LUCIE.  What  is  it?  Dr.  Hourtin,  I  beg  you  will  tell 
me  what  you  think  I  ought  to  know. 

BRIONAC.  I  haven't  time  to  waste  over  this  subject. 
I  repeat  I  am  exceedingly  busy,  and  I  have  to  make  a 
speech  this  evening.  You  must  excuse  my  leaving  you. 
Good-bye. 

Hourtin  bows.  Brignac  goes  out,  slamming  the  door  of 
his  study. 

LUCIE.  I  trust  you  will  forgive  my  husband  if  he  has 
annoyed  you. 

HOURTIN.  A  doctor  cannot  be  annoyed  at  the  symp- 
toms of  a  disease.  I  would  no  more  be  indignant  at  M. 
Brignac's  temper  than  bear  malice  against  him  for  having 
fever  in  an  attack  of  pneumonia. 

LUCIE.  You  wanted  to  speak  to  him.  Is  there  some- 
thing about  the  children? 

HOURTIN.  If  you  see  that  the  children  are  treated  as 
your  own  doctor  and  I  have  prescribed  in  our  consulta- 
tion, I  am  confident  that  their  condition  will  improve. 
But  I  have  something  more  to  say  to  you  yourself.  Not 
long  ago  I  was  called  in  to  a  married  couple,  one  of 
whom  was  a  victim  to  morphia  and  refused  to  give  up 
the  use  of  the  poison.  The  children  of  the  marriage  were 
degenerate,  and  there  was  every  reason  to  think  that 
should  others  be  born  they  would  be  even  less  healthy 
than  the  first.  I  had  to  inform  the  other  parent  con- 
cerned of  the  facts,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  discover  some 
means  of  cure.  Towards  you  I  have  the  same  duty.  With 


Act  II  Maternity  291 

the  difference  that  here  the  poison  is  alcohol  instead  of 
morphia,  the  cases  are  identical.  Like  my  other  patient, 
M.  Brignac  refused  to  listen  to  me;  and  although  his 
obstinacy  is  due  to  his  poisoned  condition,  I  confess  I 
was  unable,  in  spite  of  a  physician's  philosophy,  to  see 
without  irritation  the  way  in  which  he  is  rushing  to  ruin, 
intellectual  and  physical.  Now  your  nerves  are  strong. 
I  was  unwilling  to  go  away  without  speaking  to  you. 

LUCIE.     My  children? 

HOURTIN.  Your  children  are  suffering  from  a  nervous 
complaint  which  was  born  with  them. 

LUCIE.  As  the  result,  you  mean,  of  their  father's  in- 
temperance? Our  own  doctor  and  another  besides  have 
already  told  me  the  same  thing. 

HOURTIN.  They  should  have  begun  by  telling  M. 
Brignac. 

LUCIE.    They  did. 

HOURTIN.    Well? 

LUCIE.  He  listened  no  more  to  them  than  he  did  to 
you. 

HOURTIN.      Is    he   not    fond   of   the    children? 

LUCIE.  In  his  own  way  he  is.  But  he  will  never 
change  his  way  of  living. 

HOURTIN.     So  much  the  worse  for  him. 

LUCIE.  He  did  try  once.  He  was  incapable  of  work 
and  became  sad,  weak,  restless. 

HOURTIN.  Like  a  morphinomaniac  deprived  of  his 
drug. 

LUCIE.  To  his  mind  the  experiment  was  decisive. 
He  simply  cannot  study  a  brief  or  speak  in  court  with- 
out the  help  of  his  usual  stimulant.  He  thinks  it  does 
him  no  harm. 

HOURTIN.     He  has  only  to  look  at  the  children. 

LUCIE.  What  he  says  is  that  at  their  age  he  had 
nervous  convulsions,  and  that  now  he  is  perfectly  well. 

HOURTIN.    Precisely.     He  received  from  his  father  a 


292  Maternity  Act  II 

legacy  that  he  has  transmitted  to  them  in  a  graver  de- 
gree. His  father  drank,  but  his  life  was  the  healthy, 
active,  open  life  of  a  peasant,  and  his  power  of  resis- 
tance greater  because  he  probably  did  not  inherit  a 
morbid  tendency.  Your  husband's  life  is  sedentary  and 
feverish.  Moreover,  he  does  inherit  the  tendency.  You 
tell  me  that  he  had  convulsions  in  infancy;  yesterday 
he  said  he  was  a  backward  child.  These  are  symptoms 
just  as  much  as  his  desire  for  drink  and  his  irritability. 
He  had  a  taint  at  birth  that  he  has  increased.  His 
children  suffer  from  a  cumulative  degeneracy.  The 
grandfather  drank,  the  son  suffers  from  alcoholism,  the 
children  are  nervous  invalids. 

LUCIE.    Horrible ! 

HOURTIN.  You  must  use  your  influence  with  your 
husband  to  cure  him. 

LUCIE.    He  won't  listen  to  me. 

HOURTIN.  You  must  insist.  You  must  make  him  see 
his  duty  as  a  father. 

LUCIE.  It  would  be  so  useless  that  I  shall  not  even 
try. 

HOURTIN  [rising]  Then  I  have  only  one  further  piece 
of  advice  for  you  both:  don't  have  any  more  children. 

LUCIE.    No  more  children? 

HOURTIN.    No. 

LUCIE.    Why  not? 

HOURTIN.  Because  it  is  to  be  feared  that  any  you 
might  now  have  would  be  more  diseased  than  the  first. 

LUCIE.    Is  that  certain? 

HOURTIN.  In  medicine  there  are  no  certainties;  only 
probabilities.  The  chances  are,  perhaps,  five  to  one  that 
I  am  right.  Would  you  venture  to  give  any  creature 
so  doubtful  an  existence? 

LUCIE.  I !  No,  indeed !  Most  likely  you  have  said 
as  much  to  my  husband.  Won't  he  believe  you? 

HOURTIN.    You  must  make  him  realize  that  the  respon- 


Act  II  Maternity  293 

sibility  of  having  a  child,  great  as  it  always  is,  becomes 
terrible  when,  so  far  from  its  being  born  into  normal 
circumstances,  it  runs  the  risk  of  going  into  the  world 
worse  equipped  than  usual.  To  give  birth  to  a  child 
doomed  to  unhappiness  or  likely  to  be  an  invalid  or 
incapable  of  growing  up  is  like  crippling  someone.  It 
is  as  much  a  crime  as  robbery  or  murder.  Children 
ought  to  be  deliberately  and  soberly  brought  into  the 
world  by  parents  healthy  -enough  to  give  them  health 
and  of  sufficient  means  to  ensure  their  complete  devel- 
opment. You  must  forgive  me.  When  I  get  on  this 
subject  I  hardly  know  how  to  stop.  But  really  there 
is  so  much  unavoidable  misery  and  distress  that  we 
ought  not  to  add  to  the  sum  of  general  suffering  for 
which  there  is  no  remedy. 

Enter  Madeleine.  She  wears  an  opera  cloak  and  a 
mantilla  over  her  evening  dress.  During  the  following 
scene  Josephine  helps  her  off  with  her  things. 

MADELEINE.  How  do  you  do,  Dr.  Hourtin?  I  'm  so 
glad  to  find  you  still  here.  I  Ve  only  just  been  able  to 
get  away  from  the  party.  I  had  to  go.  There  's  nothing 
serious  the  matter  with  the  children,  I  hope? 

HOURTIN.  Nothing  serious.  With  the  care  of  a  mother 
like  theirs,  I  have  every  confidence.  Now  I  was  just 
going.  Good-bye. 

MADELEINE.    Good-bye.    Thank  you. 

LUCIE.     I  'm  extremely  grateful  to  you,  Dr.  Hourtin. 

HOURTIN.  Don't  mention  it.  Good-bye,  good-bye. 
[He  goes  out~\. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  Madeleine! 

MADELEINE.    What  is  it? 

LUCIE.  Do  you  know  why  the  children  are  ill?  Be- 
cause of  Julien's  intemperance. 

MADELEINE.  My  poor  darling!  But  you  knew  that 
before.  Our  doctor  said  so ;  and  when  they  went  to 
Paris  with  me,  the  man  there  said  the  same. 


294  Maternity  Act  II 

LUCIE.    I  tried  to  make  myself  believe  it  was  n't  true. 

MADELEINE.   And  Annette? 

LUCIE.    Has  anything  fresh  happened? 

MADELEINE.  Yes ;  the  Bernins  have  announced 
Jacques'  engagement  to  his  cousin.  They  want  to  put 
an  end  to  the  business.  People  were  talking  of  the 
engagement  this  evening. 

LUCIE.  Ah !  And  they  're  still  going  away  this  eve- 
ning? 

MADELEINE.   At  ten  o'clock.     How  does  she  take  it? 

LUCIE.  She  is  in  her  room,  waiting  as  though  she 
expected  something.  She  said  just  now  she  knew  the 
Bernins  would  not  go  this  evening.  What  can  she  hope? 

MADELEINE.  We  must  tell  her  about  the  engagement. 
She  must  n't  be  left  to  hear  of  it  from  strangers. 

LUCIE.     No,  no! 

MADELEINE.    And  your  husband? 

LUCIE.  He 's  working  in  there.  There 's  to  be  a 
political  meeting,  a  smoking  concert  or  something,  after 
the  dinner  at  the  Prefecture  to-night.  He  heard  at 
the  last  moment  that  he  was  expected  to  speak,  on  the 
budget  of  the  Department,  I  think.  I  don't  know,  ex- 
actly. Anyway,  he  's  there. 

MADELEINE.    Fetch  Annette,  then. 

LUCIE.  Yes.  [She  goes  out.  A  short  silence.  Then 
calls  outside]  Madeleine!  Madeleine! 

MADELEINE  [running  to  the  door]     What  is  it? 

LUCIE  [returning]   She  is  n't  there. 

MADELEINE.    Where  is  she? 

LUCIE.  Gone !  She 's  left  a  note.  She 's  gone  to 
look  for  him.  Quick!  Your  carriage  is  here.  Go  and 
find  her!  Help  her! 

MADELEINE.    Gone ! 

LUCIE.    Yes.     Quick!     Go! 

Madeleine  goes  out.    Enter  Brignac. 

BRIGNAC.    What  is  all  this  noise  about? 


Act  II  Maternity  295 

LUCIE.  Julien,  I  Ve  something  very  serious  to  say 
to  you.  A  disaster  has  fallen  on  us. 

BRIGNAC.    The  children! 

LUCIE.    No ;  it 's  about  Annette. 

BRIGNAC.    Is  she  ill? 

LUCIE.    Not  ill,  but  in  cruel,  horrible  grief. 

BRIGNAC.  Grief  at  her  age !  A  love  affair,  eh?  She's 
been  jilted? 

LUCIE.    That 's  it. 

BRIGNAC.  Whew !  I  breathe  again.  You  frightened 
me.  Not  so  very  serious. 

LUCIE.  Yes ;  it  is.  My  dear,  you  must  listen  with 
all  your  heart  and  with  all  your  mind  —  and  be  kind. 

BRIGNAC.    But  what's  the  matter? 

LUCIE.  Annette  has  fallen  in  love  with  a  scoundrel 
who  has  deceived  her.  The  poor  child  committed  the 
mistake  of  trusting  him  completely.  He  promised  to 
marry  her  and  took  advantage  of  her  innocence  to  se- 
duce her.  [Lore»]  Understand  me,  Julien,  she  is  going 
to  have  a  baby  in  six  months. 

BRIGNAC.     Annette ! 

LUCIE.    Annette. 

BRIGNAC.     Impossible !     It 's  — 

LUCIE.  It  was  she  who  confessed  to  me.  She  is 
sure  of  it. 

BRIGNAC  [after  a  silence]  Who's  the  man? 

LUCIE.    Jacques  Bernin. 

BRIGNAC.    Jacques  Bernin ! 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

BRIGNAC  [furious]  Here 's  a  fine  piece  of  business ! 
Ha,  at  the  moment  of  my  election,  too!  Magnificent! 
Oh,  she 's  done  me  to  rights,  your  sister  has !  All 's 
up  with  me  now!  We  may  as  well  pack  our  trunks 
and  be  off. 

LUCIE.    You  exaggerate. 

BRIGNAC.    Do  I?  I  tell  you  if  she  had  been  caught 


296  Maternity  Act  II 

stealing  —  stealing,  do  you  hear  ?  —  it  would  n't  have 
been  worse.  Even  that  would  have  compromised  me 
less  —  thrown  me  less  absolutely  out  of  the  running. 

LUCIE.  Leave  that  till  later.  Now  the  thing  is  to 
save  her.  You  :11  go  to-morrow  morning,  won't  you, 
Julien,  and  find  this  fellow?  Make  him  see  what  an 
abominable  crime  it  would  be  for  him  to  desert  our  poor 
little  girl. 

BRIGNAC.  Much  you  know  him,  M.  Jacques  Bernin! 
But  I  do !  He  '11  laugh  in  my  face.  His  one  idea  is 
to  get  on  in  the  world.  Why,  he  was  talking  of  his 
engagement  to  Mademoiselle  Dormance  two  months  ago 
and  chortling  over  her  shekels.  Good  lord,  what  a  man 
for  your  sister  to  hit  upon ! 

LUCIE.    But  you  won't  abandon  her? 

BRIGNAC.  Yes ;  I  'm  in  a  nice  place.  Who  'd  have 
thought  it?  So  this  is  the  thanks  I  get  for  all  I  Ve 
done  for  her ! 

LUCIE.   Don't  fly  into  a  rage! 

BRIGNAC.  Her!  Her!  A  child  brought  up  in  the 
strictest  principles,  brought  up  at  home  here  by  you 
and  me,  not  allowed  to  read  novels  or  go  to  the  theatre ! 
She  has  n't  even  the  excuse  of  having  been  to  a  boarding 
school.  Why,  sometimes  we  could  hardly  help  laughing 
at  her  ignorance  of  life. 

LUCIE.  Perhaps  if  she  had  been  less  ignorant,  she 
would  have  run  less  risk. 

BRIGNAC  [breaking  out]  That's  right!  Now  it's  all 
my  fault! 

LUCIE.    Don't  get  into  a  passion ! 

BRIGNAC.  I  shall  if  I  like !  And  I  think  there  's  some 
reason,  too !  Annette ! 

LUCIE.    Annette  is  only  a  victim. 

BRIGNAC  [shouting]  A  victim !  I  tell  you  there  's  only 
one  victim  here!  Only  one!  And  do  you  know  who? 

LUCIE.    You,  I  suppose. 


Act  II  Maternity  297 

BRIONAC.  Yes ;  it  is.  Look  here !  Can't  you  see  the 
jokes  that  will  be  made  about  me,  the  ironical  congratu- 
lations —  me,  the  apostle  of  repopulation  ?  Ha,  they  '11 
say  that  if  I  don't  give  an  example  myself,  my  family 
does ! 

LUCIE.    Julien,  Julien,  please ! 

BRIGNAC.  Just  when  I  thought  I  had  done  with  veg- 
etating as  a  provincial  lawyer,  when  my  patience  and 
ability  had  got  me  accepted  as  candidate! 

LUCIE.    You  might  not  have  been  elected. 

BRIGNAC.  I  should  have  been !  Even  if  it  were  not 
me,  our  side  would  win.  Once  in  the  Chamber,  I  should 
have  done  with  this  wretched  obscure  existence. 

LUCIE.   And  then? 

BRIGNAC.  Then?  A  deputy  gets  any  amount  of  work, 
and  wins  his  cases,  too !  Judges  listen  very  differently 
to  a  man  who  any  day  may  become  Minister  of  Justice. 
It  means  something  to  them.  And  now  this  catastrophe ! 
I  tell  you  that  here,  at  Chartres,  it  spells  ruin! 

LUCIE.    How  you  exaggerate!    Who  's  to  know? 

BRIGNAC.  Who  's  to  know  ?  Next  Sunday  every  per- 
son in  the  town  '11  be  talking  of  it.  And  my  political 
opponents,  do  you  think  they  '11  scruple  ?  Not  only 
them,  either.  M.  de  Forgeau  and  his  committee  won't 
give  the  electors  the  chance  to  turn  me  down.  Within 
a  week  I  shall  be  shown  the  door.  You  see !  It  '11  be 
lucky  if  no  one  insinuates  that  I  seduced  the  girl  my- 
self! 

LUCIE.    Oh ! 

BRIGNAC.  This  is  a  provincial  town!  This  is 
Chartres ! 

LUCIE.  So  when  an  unhappy  woman  is  seduced  by 
a  scoundrel,  her  shame,  if  shame  there  is,  falls  on  her 
whole  family !  Is  that  the  system  you  uphold  ? 

BRIGNAC.  Society  must  defend  itself  against  immoral- 
ity. Without  the  guarantee  of  social  punishment, 


298  Maternity  Act  II 

there  would  soon  be  hardly  any  except  illegitimate 
children. 

LUCIE.  If  anyone  is  guilty,  two  are.  Why  do  you 
only  punish  the  mother? 

ERIGN AC.    How  should  I  know  ?     Because  it 's  easier. 

LUCIE.  But  you  can't  sit  still  and  do  nothing.  You 
must  do  something !  You  're  the  head  of  the  family. 

BRIGNAC.  Something!  Something!  What?  The  only 
logical  thing  I  know  is  to  take  a  pistol  — 

LUCIE.    Julien ! 

BRIGNAC.  And  go  coolly  and  put  a  bullet  through 
the  man's  head.  No?  A  crime,  is  it?  Ah,  if  we  lived 
in  an  age  with  a  little  more  guts !  [As  if  to  himself]  No; 
I  'm  not  sure  it 's  not  my  duty  to  go  and  do  justice 
myself. 

LUCIE.    Julien,  you  're  not  dreaming  of  that ! 

BRIGNAC.    And  why  not? 

LUCIE.    Think  of  the  scandal,  and  then  — 

BRIGNAC.  And  then  I  should  be  tried  for  murder? 
Well,  do  you  think  I  'm  afraid  of  that  ?  What  then  ? 
I  should  defend  myself,  and  I  can  tell  you  not  many 
people  have  heard  such  a  speech  as  I  should  make ! 
Think  of  the  effect  on  the  jury!  I  should  be  acquitted, 
and  the  public  would  cheer  till  the  court  had  to  be 
cleared.  [A  pause].  He  's  in  luck's  way,  the  brute, 
that  I  've  too  much  respect  for  human  life.  If  I 
were  n't  a  bit  old  fashioned  —  ha,  so  much  for  him. 
[A  pause].  No,  no;  the  weak  point  in  these  folk  is 
their  pocket.  That 's  what  I  '11  go  for.  That 's  it. 
We  '11  bring  an  action,  an  action  for  the  seduction  of 
an  infant. 

LUCIE.    Publish  her  shame  like  that! 

BRIGNAC.  He  '11  have  his  share  of  it.  I  '11  make  him 
sing  another  tune,  so  I  will.  We  '11  ask  twenty,  fifty, 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  damages !  It  '11  be  a  dowry 
for  Annette.  Yes;  we  can  do  that,  an  ordinary  civil 


Act  II  Maternity  299 

action,  or  else,  if  we  like,  prosecute  him  criminally.  I 
could  show  you  the  law  about  it ;  it 's  all  in  the  reports. 
And  besides,  the  way  I  '11  conduct  the  case,  the  papers 
will  boom  it  sky  high. 

LUCIE.  You  can't  surely  want  to  have  the  papers 
talking  about  us,  printing  poor  Annette's  story,  discus- 
sing her  honor? 

BRIGNAC.  Reflecting  on  me,  too.  If  only  we  were  n't 
related ! 

LUCIE.    We  should  be  just  as  much  dishonored. 

BRIGNAC.  If  you  had  n't  made  me  take  Annette  to 
live  with  us  when  your  parents  died,  none  of  this  would 
have  happened. 

LUCIE.    It  was  you  who  suggested  it  to  me ! 

BRIGNAC.  I  know  I  did.  All  the  stupid  things  I  Ve 
done  in  my  life  —  not  that  there  have  been  many  — 
come  from  my  having  too  good  a  heart.  All  people 
from  the  South  have;  we  can't  think  twice  before  doing 
a  kindness.  So  much  the  more  reason  why  you  should 
have  looked  after  her  carefully. 

LUCIE.  Oh,  it 's  too  much !  When  you  yourself  wanted 
her  to  make  friends  with  the  Bernins ! 

BRIGNAC.  Because  I  hoped  that  old  Bernin  would 
be  useful  to  us ! 

LUCIE.  You  always  kept  urging  Annette  to  go  to 
them. 

BRIGNAC.     So  it's  all  my  fault,  is  it? 

LUCIE.  I  don't  say  that,  but  I  must  show  you  that 
I  'm  not  so  culpable  as  you  make  out.  What  are  we 
going  to  do? 

BRIGNAC.    In  any  case  Annette  can't  stay  here. 

LUCIE.  Good  heavens,  where  can  she  go?  Madeleine 
can't  have  her.  Perhaps  our  old  nurse,  Catherine  — 

BRIGNAC.  If  she  went  to  Madeleine  or  Catherine,  it 
would  be  exactly  as  if  we  kept  her  here.  The  important 
thing  is  that  no  one  should  know  anything  about  it.  She 


300  Maternity  Act  II 

must  go  to  Paris,  to  some  big  town,  till  the  birth  of  her 
child. 

LUCIE.     It 's  not  possible. 

BRIONAC.  The  only  thing  not  possible  is  to  let  it  be 
known,  to  keep  her  at  Chartres.  Can't  you  imagine  what 
it  would  be  like  for  her  if  we  did?  Think  of  her  going 
to  a  concert  or  to  Mass  when  her  condition  became  evi- 
dent !  She  would  n't  be  able  to  go  out  of  the  house  with- 
out being  exposed  to  insult  and  insolence.  And  the  way 
our  acquaintances  would  look  at  her!  Why,  it  would 
be  purgatory ! 

LUCIE.  And  everyone  will  welcome  M.  Jacques 
Bernin. 

BRIGNAC.  Of  course  they  will.  And  when  the  child 
is  born,  what  then?  I  'm  not  thinking  of  the  expense: 
fortunately  for  her  she  has  us  to  fall  back  on,  so  she 
would  n't  starve.  Suppose  she  put  the  baby  out  to 
nurse  ?  Afterwards  she  'd  have  to  keep  it  with  her  — 
imagine  what  people  would  say !  She  might  pay  for  it  to 
be  brought  up  elsewhere,  but  that 's  only  a  way  of  de- 
serting it.  She  would  never  be  able  to  marry.  All  her 
life  she  would  be  a  pariah.  No;  the  only  thing  is  to 
send  her  away. 

LUCIE.    Send  her  away  —  where  to? 

BRIGNAC.  How  should  I  know  ?  We  '11  find  some 
place.  There  are  places  for  that  at  Paris.  Yes;  I 
remember  now,  special  places.  We  '11  pay  whatever  is 
necessary.  Establishments  where  you  're  not  required 
to  give  your  name  at  all.  The  difficulty  will  be  to  find 
a  plausible  reason  of  Annette's  absence.  However, 
we  '11  find  one. 

LUCIE.   And  the  child? 

BRIGNAC.  The  child?  She  can  do  what  she  likes 
with  that.  You  don't  suppose  I  '11  have  it  back  here  with 
her,  do  you? 

LUCIE.    Then  that 's  what  you  're  proposing  to  do  ? 


Act  II  Maternity  301 

BRIGNAC.     That 's  what  we  must  do. 

LUCIE.  How  does  one  get  into  these  places  you  were 
speaking  of? 

BRIGNAC.  I  don't  know,  exactly.  I  '11  find  out.  Don't 
worry.  If  necessary,  I  '11  go  to  Paris  and  take  the 
proper  steps.  Of  course  without  saying  that  it 's  to  do 
with  anyone  I  know. 

LUCIE.    Of  course. 

BRIGNAC.    Of  course. 

LUCIE  [rising  and  touching  him  on  the  shoulder  as 
she  passes]  You  are  a  fine  fellow. 

BRIGNAC  [modestly]  Oh,  come;  only  a  little  thought 
was  wanted. 

LUCIE.    I  think  you  have  no  conscience  at  all. 

BRIGNAC.  What  do  you  mean?  You  speak  as  if  I 
were  a  monster. 

LUCIE.   Nothing  but  respect  for  public  opinion. 

BRIGNAC.  Respect  for  public  opinion  is  one  form  of 
conscience. 

LUCIE.  The  conscience  of  people  who  have  n't  got 
any! 

BRIGNAC.     Anyway,  one  can't  do  anything  else. 

LUCIE.  Can't  you  imagine  what  my  poor  darling's 
life  would  be  like  if  we  did  what  you  said?  Turned 
out  of  here  — 

BRIGNAC.    No,  no;  not  turned  out. 

LUCIE.  Sent  away  unwillingly,  if  you  like,  coming  to 
this  place,  suddenly  thrust  into  contact  with  all  the 
sadness  and  the  misery  and  the  vice  of  Paris !  Think 
of  her  waiting  all  those  months,  in  the  midst  of  the 
women  there,  while  a  poor  little  creature  is  growing 
into  life  that  she  knows  beforehand  is  condemned  to 
all  the  risks  and  cruelty  suffered  by  children  whom  their 
mothers  abandon !  And  when  she  is  torn  with  the  tor- 
turing pain  that  I  know  so  well,  at  that  moment  of 
martyrdom  when  a  woman  feels  death  hovering  over  her 
bed  and  watching  jealously  for  mother  and  child,  wheu 


302  Maternity  Act  II 

the  full  horror  of  the  sacred  mystery  she  has  accom- 
plished is  on  her,  then  she  '11  only  have  strangers  round 
her!  And  if  her  poor  eyes  look  round,  like  a  victim's, 
perhaps  for  the  last  time,  for  a  friendly  glance,  if  she 
feels  for  a  hand  to  press,  she  will  only  see  round  her 
bed  unknown  men  performing  a  duty  and  women  carry- 
ing on  their  trade.  And  then?  Then  she  must  resist 
her  highest  instincts,  stifle  the  cry  of  love  that  consoles 
all  women  for  what  they  have  gone  through,  and  say 
she  does  n't  want  her  child  —  look  aside,  and  say:  "  Take 
him  away !  I  don't  want  to  see  him."  That 's  the  price 
for  which  she  will  be  pardoned  the  crime  of  someone 
else!  That's  your  justice!  Justice!  Social  hypocrisy, 
rather  —  that 's  what  you  stand  up  for.  Nothing  but 
that.  And  that 's  why,  if  Annette  stayed  to  bring  up 
her  child  here,  she  would  be  an  object  of  reproach; 
whereas,  if  she  is  confined  secretly  in  Paris  and  gets 
rid  of  the  baby,  nobody  will  say  anything.  Let 's  be 
frank  about  it.  If  she  had  a  lover,  but  no  child,  she 
would  be  let  off.  It  is  n't  immorality  that 's  condemned, 
but  having  children !  You  cry  out  for  a  higher  birth 
rate,  and  at  the  same  time  you  say  to  women :  "  No 
children  without  marriage,  and  no  marriage  without  a 
dowry."  Well,  so  long  as  you  don't  change  that,  all 
your  circulars  and  your  speeches  will  only  succeed  in 
arousing  laughter  of  pity  and  of  rage! 

BRIGNAC.    Well,  is  it  my  fault? 

LUCIE.  No ;  it 's  not  your  fault.  It 's  the  fault  of 
all  of  us,  of  our  prejudice,  our  silly  vanity,  our  hypoc- 
risy. But  you  stand  up  for  it  all  and  justify  it.  You 
have  the  typical  window  dressing,  middle  class  virtues. 
You  publicly  preach  the  repopulation  of  France,  and 
.  then  find  it  in  your  conscience  to  get  rid  of  a  child  whose 
only  fault  is  that  its  parents  had  it  without  first  going 
through  a  stupid  ceremony,  and  without  the  whole  town 
being  told  that  Monsieur  X  and  Mademoiselle  Y  were 


Act  II  Maternity  303 

going  to  bed  together!  [A  pause]  Go  and  make  your 
speech.  Go  and  defend  the  morals  of  society.  That 's 
about  what  you  're  worth. 

Enter  Madeleine. 

MADELEINE.    She  's  not  come  back? 

LUCIE.     No.     Have  n't  you  seen  her  ? 

MADELEINE.    No. 

BRIGNAC.  Since  you  take  it  like  that,  then,  you  will 
kindly  find  another  home  than  my  house  for  your  sister 
from  now  onwards. 

LUCIE.  Ah,  yes ;  say  it  outright !  You  long  to  get 
rid  of  her! 

BRIGNAC  [talking  all  the  time  while  he  goes  into  his 
study  and  comes  back  with  his  portfolio,  hat,  and  coat] 
I  'm  off.  It 's  too  much !  Yes ;  I  'm  off !  And  for  my 
part,  I  refuse  to  be  the  victim  of  your  sister's  pranks ! 

LUCIE    [to  herself]    Wretch!     Wretch! 

BRIGNAC.  Do  what  you  like,  but  I  won't  have  that 
sort  of  thing  here.  [He  goes  out]. 

MADELEINE.  I  don't  know  which  way  she  went  nor 
where  she  is. 

LUCIE.   You  Ve  been  to  the  Bernins  ? 

MADELEINE.    They  were  dining  out. 

LUCIE.  Did  they  leave  the  town  by  an  afternoon 
train  ? 

MADELEINE.    I  don't  know. 

LUCIE.    Oh,  I  'm  afraid. 

MADELEINE.  Annette  must  have  known  where  they 
were  dining,  because  I  got  to  their  door  before  she  had 
time  to  get  there  herself. 

LUCIE.    You  should  have  gone  to  the  station. 

MADELEINE.  I  made  up  my  mind  to,  but  then  I  saw 
that  I  should  n't  have  time  before  the  train  went.  So 
I  thought  she  must  have  come  back. 

LUCIE.   Here  she  is !      Thank  God ! 

Enter  Catherine  and  Annette. 


304  Maternity  Act  II 

CATHERINE.  I  will!  I  will  tell!  So  as  they  may 
stop  you  trying  again. 

Annette,  her  teeth  clenched,  her  eyes  fixed,  shrugs 
her  shoulders.  Throughout  the  ensuing  scene  no  tear 
comes  to  her  eyes. 

MADELEINE.    In  heaven's  name  what  has  happened? 

LUCIE.  You  're  here,  you  're  here !  [She  tries  to  take 
Annette  in  her  arm*]. 

ANNETTE.  Let  me  go  !  Let  me  go  !  [She  picks  up  her 
hat  and  coat,  which  she  has  thrown  on  to  a  chair,  and 
sits  down,  hard  and  reticent], 

LUCIE.    What  is  the  matter?     What  have  you  done? 

ANNETTE  [in  a  broken  voice]  I  wanted  to  put  an  end 
to  myself.  Catherine  stopped  me. 

LUCIE.    To  kill  — 

MADELEINE.    Annette ! 

LUCIE.    And  us,  had  you  forgotten  us? 

ANNETTE.  My  death  would  have  brought  less  trouble 
on  you  than  my  life  will. 

MADELEINE.    Catherine,  what  has  happened? 

CATHERINE.  I  was  getting  out  of  the  train.  I  saw 
her  start  to  throw  herself  under  the  wheels. 

MADELEINE  and  LUCIE   [terrified]    Oh! 

ANNETTE.    You  '11  be  sorry  one  day  you  stopped  me. 

CATHERINE.  You  hear  her !  That 's  the  way  she  's 
been  going  on  as  we  came  back,  all  the  time  she  was 
telling  me  her  story. 

LUCIE.    Swear  you  '11  never  try  again,  Annette. 

ANNETTE.    How  can  I  tell? 

MADELEINE.    Was  she  alone? 

CATHERINE.  No.  When  I  saw  her,  she  seemed  to 
be  having  a  dispute  with  M.  Bernin's  family.  I  stopped 
to  watch.  Then  M.  Jacques  got  into  the  train  and 
Annette  stood  there  crying;  and  just  as  the  train  went 
away,  she  gave  a  cry  and  ran  to  try  and  throw  herself 
under  the  wheels.  I  caught  her  by  the  dress  and 


Act  II  Maternity  305 

brought  her  away ;  and  I  would  n't  leave  her  till  I 
knew  she  was  back  here  and  I  had  told  you  what 
she  'd  done. 

ANNETTE.  All  right.  Don't  let 's  speak  about  it.  I 
tried  to  kill  myself  and  I  failed.  If  they  saw  me,  no 
doubt  they  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

MADELEINE.    You  went  to  wait  for  them  at  the  train? 

ANNETTE.  No.  I  knew  where  Jacques  was  dining  — 
at  a  restaurant  —  a  farewell  party.  His  parents  were 
having  dinner  at  the  station.  I  went  to  the  restaurant 
and  asked  for  him,  like  a  girl  off  the  streets.  I  could 
hear  his  friends  laughing  and  joking  from  where  I  was, 
when  the  waiter  took  my  message. 

LUCIE.    Did  he  come? 

ANNETTE.  Yes.  He  told  me  afterwards  he  thought 
it  was  some  woman  from  a  cafe  chantant  who  sent  for 
him.  Oh ! 

MADELEINE.    And  when  he  saw  that  it  was  you? 

ANNETTE.  He  took  me  into  the  street,  so  that  I 
should  n't  be  recognized.  That 's  where  we  had  our 
talk.  The  passers-by  laughed  and  made  horrible  jokes. 

MADELEINE.    And  then  you  told  him? 

ANNETTE.    Yes. 

LUCIE.   Well? 

ANNETTE.  You  couldn't  guess  what  he  answered: 
that  it  was  n't  true. 

LUCIE.    Oh ! 

ANNETTE  [still  fearlessly]  Then  he  lost  his  temper 
and  said  he  saw  through  my  game;  that  I  wanted  to 
force  him  to  marry  me  because  he  was  rich.  Much 
he  spared  me!  I  tried  to  put  my  arms  round  him:  he 
threatened  to  call  the  police.  Then  I  cried,  I  implored 
him  —  I  asked  him  to  come  with  me  tomorrow  to  a 
doctor  to  prove  I  was  n't  lying.  He  answered  quite 
coldly  that,  even  if  it  was  true,  there  was  nothing  to 
prove  that  it  was  him.  Ah,  you  can't  believe  itj  can 


306  Maternity  Act  II 

you  ?  It 's  too  much !  I  could  n't  have,  unless  I  had 
heard  it  with  my  own  ears;  and  how  I  could  without 
dying,  I  don't  know.  You  don't  know  what  depths  of 
shame  and  cowardice  I  sunk  to.  Then  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  saying  he  only  had  time  to  catch  the  train. 
He  said  good-bye  and  dashed  off  to  the  station.  I  had 
to  half  run  to  keep  up,  crying,  and  begging  him  not  to 
desert  me  —  for  the  sake  of  his  child,  of  my  happiness, 
my  love,  my  very  life!  Horrible!  Horrible!  Loath- 
some !  And  how  ridiculous !  I  had  him  by  the  arm. 
I  could  n't  believe  that  was  the  end.  At  the  entrance 
to  the  station  he  said,  brutally:  "  Let  me  go,  will  you?  " 
I  said:  "  You  shan't  go."  Then  he  rushed  to  the  train 
and  got  into  the  carriage,  nearly  crushing  my  fingers  in 
the  door,  and  hid  behind  his  mother;  and  she  threatened, 
too,  to  have  me  arrested.  Gabrielle  sat  there,  looking 
white,  and  pretending  not  to  notice  and  not  to  know 
me.  Catherine  's  told  you  the  rest. 
A  silence. 

LUCIE.  You  must  swear,  Annette,  never  to  think 
again  of  suicide. 

ANNETTE.    I  could  n't  swear  sincerely. 

MADELEINE.  You  must  be  brave,  now  that  you  know 
what  life  is,  brutally  as  it  has  been  revealed  to  you. 
Almost  all  the  women  you  think  happy  have  gone 
through  an  inner  catastrophe.  They  make  themselves 
forget  it  because  their  very  tears  give  out.  Suffering 
is  reticent,  and  they  conceal  theirs.  But  there  are  few 
women  whose  lives  have  not  been  broken,  few  who  don't 
carry  within  them  the  corpse  of  the  woman  they  would 
have  wished  to  be. 

ANNETTE.  You  say  that  to  console  me.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it. 

MADELEINE.  It's  the  truth;  and  I've  learnt  it  by 
experience. 

ANNETTE.  I  'm  tired  of  life.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a 
hundred. 


Act  II  Maternity  307 

LUCIE.    Keep  up  your  heart.     We  won't  desert  you. 

ANNETTE.  What  can  you  do?  I  shall  be  turned  away 
from  here. 

LUCIE.     If  you  are,  I  '11  go  with  you. 

ANNETTE.    And  your  children? 

LUCIE.    I  '11  take  them,  too. 

ANNETTE.  He  '11  fetch  them  back.  Besides,  what 
should  we  live  on? 

LUCIE.    Ah ! 

ANNETTE.  You  see!  You  can't  do  anything  either, 
Madeleine,  for  all  your  love.  Your  husband  would  n't 
let  you  take  me  in.  Nor  you  either,  Catherine.  You 
could  n't  afford  to.  Well,  then  ? 

CATHERINE.    Eh!  eh! 

Fresh  silence. 

ANNETTE.    What  a  terrible  thing  life  is! 

MADELEINE.    For  all  women. 

ANNETTE.    Not  for  anyone  as  much  as  for  me. 

MADELEINE.  You  think  so,  and  that 's  why  you  think 
of  dying.  Well,  I  'm  alive.  You  see  me  laughing  now 
and  then.  If  you  only  knew ! 

CATHERINE.   And  what  about  me,  Annette? 

ANNETTE.    You  have  your  children  to  console  you. 

CATHERINE.    It 's  they  that  make  it  hard  for  me. 

ANNETTE.  For  other  women  it 's  a  refuge  to  have 
children.  What  will  it  be  for  me? 

MADELEINE.   You  think  that  I  am  happy,  Annette? 

ANNETTE.  You  have  a  husband  who  loves  you,  you  're 
rich,  you  can  afford  to  dress  beautifully,  you  go  every- 
where, and  everyone  wants  to  have  you.  That 's  some 
happiness,  is  n't  it? 

MADELEINE.  That 's  all  you  see.  If  you  only  knew 
what  you  don't  see ! 

CATHERINE.  Do  you  think  being  a  mother  has  made 
me  happy? 

ANNETTE.    I  know  you  're  poor.     You  have  to  work, 


308  Maternity  Act  II 

to  work  hard,  to  bring  up  your  children;  but  you  can 
look  the  world  in  the  face  and  love  them. 

CATHERINE.    If  you  knew! 

MADELEINE.  Then  you  must  know !  Even  Lucie 
does  n't  know  what  I  'm  going  to  say.  You  think  I  'm 
happy  because  the  money  my  godmother  left  me  enabled 
me  to  marry  the  man  of  my  choice,  a  man  who  was 
well  off.  Listen,  then.  My  husband  married  me  because 
I  was  good  looking.  He  wanted  a  son.  I  gave  him  one, 
but  my  child  cost  me  his  love.  You  can't  be  a  wife 
and  a  mother  at  the  same  time.  I  lost  my  elegant 
figure,  I  was  ill,  I  suffered  the  woes  that  woman's  flesh 
is  heir  to  and  —  he  left  me  for  another  woman !  Don't 
be  too  quick  to  condemn  worldly  women  who  shrink 
from  motherhood,  Annette.  Man's  baseness  is  such  that 
they  must  often  choose  between  their  husbands  and  their 
children.  And  if  some  choose  their  husband,  let  those 
who  have  never  loved  throw  the  first  stone  at  them !  I 
felt  that  if  I  nursed  my  baby  I  should  lose  my  husband 
for  good,  and  to  win  him  back  I  put  my  child  out  to 
nurse.  He  died,  Annette;  and  I  have  the  agony  of 
thinking  that  if  I  had  kept  him  with  me  he  would  be 
alive.  Do  you  understand?  It's  as  if  I  had  killed 
him.  Now  I  don't  mean  to  have  another  child.  I  lead 
a  worldly  life,  laughing,  dining  out,  going  to  parties, 
because  that 's  what  my  husband  wants,  and  that 's  how 
he  loves  me.  I  shall  have  a  lonely  old  age.  My  arms 
are  empty  —  mine,  whose  joy  would  have  been  to  rock 
my  children  to  sleep  in  them  —  and  I  'm  ashamed  of 
what  I  'm  doing.  I  despise  myself.  You  'd  think  I  'd 
paid  enough  for  my  husband's  love,  would  n't  you  ?  Oh, 
no.  He  's  gone  to  Paris,  ostensibly  on  business,  really 
to  another  woman.  I  know  it.  I  pretend  not  to  know 
because  I  'm  afraid  of  forcing  him  to  choose  between 
her  and  me.  That 's  my  life,  Annette.  Many  women 
whom  you  think  happy  live  like  that. 


Act  II  Maternity  309 

ANNETTE.    Poor  Madeleine ! 

LUCIE.  And  I.  One  of  my  little  girls  is  an  invalid, 
the  other  is  ailing.  Perhaps  she  '11  die. 

CATHERINE.    Two  of  mine  died  of  want. 

MADELEINE.  I  don't  want  to  have  another  child  for 
fear  that  my  husband  would  leave  me  altogether.  A 
divorce,  if  I  got  one,  would  leave  me  a  kind  of  half- 
widow  and  make  my  girl  an  orphan. 

CATHERINE.  If  I  had  any  more,  it  would  only  mean 
taking  away  food  from  those  who  have  n't  enough  as 
it  is. 

LUCIE.  I  'm  guilty  enough  already.  Two  children  of 
suffering  owe  their  existence  to  me. 

MADELEINE.  Think  of  my  torture !  I  adore  my  hus- 
band: when  he  comes  back  I  long  to  feel  myself  in  his 
arms  and  I  dread  the  consequences. 

CATHERINE.  Mine  will  leave  me  if  I  have  another. 
And  then  what  would  become  of  me,  all  alone  with  all 
my  children? 

LUCIE.  Your  children  who  are  grown  up  will  support 
you,  Catherine. 

CATHERINE.  Those  who  are  grown  up !  Grown  up ! 
I  've  just  been  hearing  about  them.  Edmond  is  in  hos- 
pital, ruined  for  life  by  going  into  what  they  call  "  a 
dangerous  trade  "  because  he  could  n't  get  work  in  any 
other.  There  are  too  many  workmen.  My  daughter, 
she  's  on  the  streets.  [Sobbing]  Oh,  it 's  too  much ! 
There  's  too  much  misery  in  the  world ! 

MADELEINE.    Yes,  there  's  too  much  misery ! 

ANNETTE.    And  I  thought  I  was  the  most  miserable ! 

LUCIE.    There  's  too  much  unhappiness ! 

CATHERINE.  The  children  of  poor  folk  are  unhappy, 
all  of  them,  all. 

ANNETTE.  The  child  of  an  unmarried  woman,  too,  is 
born  only  to  suffering. 

LUCIE.  Children  who  are  born  sickly  or  ill  ought  not 
to  be  born  at  all. 


810  Maternity  Act  II 

CATHERINE.  You  see,  Annette,  we  must  bear  it.  God  's 
given  us  eyes ;  it 's  to  cry  with. 

ANNETTE.    To  cry  with! 

The  four  women  cry  silently.  Catherine  is  in  Made- 
leine's arms.  Lucie  has  her  head  on  Annette's  lap. 

CATHERINE  [making  ready  to  leave]  Please  to  for- 
give me. 

MADELEINE.    We  have  the  same  troubles. 

ANNETTE.    Yes;  we  have  the  same  troubles. 

CATHERINE.  Yes ;  whether  one  's  rich  or  poor,  when 
one  's  a  woman  — 

Annette  kisses  Catherine.     Catherine  goes  out. 

MADELEINE.  I  must  go,  too.  Your  husband  will  be 
coming  back. 

LUCIE  [to  herself,  terrified]  My  husband  coming 
back  —  coming  back ! 

ANNETTE.  I  won't  see  him.  Madeleine,  you  're  alone; 
take  me  with  you ! 

MADELEINE.  Yes.  You  can  come  to-morrow,  Lucie. 
We  '11  talk  then. 

LUCIE.  Yes.  [Suddenly]  Here  he  is!  Go  out  that 
way. 

She  pushes  them  out  through  Annette's  room.  After 
a  moment  Brignac  comes  in,  flushed  and  happy. 

BRIGNAC.  What,  still  up !  Aha,  my  dear,  I  'm  going 
to  be  elected!  Absolutely  certain,  I  tell  you.  Here, 
I  've  brought  you  a  bunch  of  roses. 

LUCIE  [without  listening'}  Thank  you.  So  you  're 
going  to  turn  Annette  out? 

BRIGNAC.  I  'm  not  turning  her  out.  I  simply  ask  her 
to  go  somewhere  else. 

LUCIE.    I  shall  go  with  her. 

BRIGNAC.     You  're  going  to  leave  me? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

BRIGNAC.    You  don't  love  me  any  more,  then? 

LUCIE.    No. 


Act  II  Maternity  311 

BRIGNAC.  Ha !  Another  story  beginning.  Since 
when  ? 

LUCIE.    I  've  never  loved  you. 

BRIGNAC.    All  the  same  you  married  me. 

LUCIE.    I  did  n't  love  you. 

BRIGNAC.    This  is  nice  news.     Go  on. 

LUCIE.  You  're  only  another  victim  of  the  morals 
you  were  championing  just  now. 

BRIGNAC.    I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

LUCIE.  When  you  asked  me  to  marry  you  I  was  tired 
of  waiting  in  poverty  for  the  man  I  could  have  loved. 
I  did  n't  want  to  become  an  old  maid.  I  took  you,  but 
I  knew  you  came  to  me  because  the  girls  with  money 
wouldn't  have  you.  You  were  on  the  shelf,  too.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  try  and  love  you  loyally. 

BRIGNAC.    Well,  then? 

LUCIE.  The  first  time  I  was  going  to  have  a  child  you 
left  me  for  other  women.  Since  then  I  have  only  put 
up  with  you.  I  was  too  cowardly  not  to.  You  may 
as  well  know  it.  I  wanted  my  first  child;  the  others 
I  've  had  only  because  you  made  me.  Each  time  you 
left  me  —  I  was  so  ugly !  Yes ;  ugly  through  you ! 
You  left  me  at  home,  alone,  dreary,  repulsive,  to  come 
back  from  the  arms  of  some  prostitute,  full  of  hypo- 
critical solicitude  for  my  health !  After  the  fatigue  of 
nursing  I  begged  for  a  rest,  to  have  a  breathing  space, 
so  that  I  might  have  some  life  of  my  own;  and  when 
I  demanded  only  to  have  children  at  my  own  wish,  you 
laughed  like  a  self-satisfied  fool.  Oh,  your  fatuous 
pride,  your  base  egoism,  your  utter  want  of  thought 
for  the  future  of  your  children  and  the  life  of  your 
wife !  So  you  forced  on  me  the  labor  and  the  agony 
and  the  danger  of  having  another  child.  What  did  it 
matter  to  you?  It  flattered  your  vanity  to  make  merry 
with  your  friends  and  give  yourself  the  airs  of  a  fine 
fellow.  Idiot ! 

BRIGNAC.  I  've  had  enough  of  this.  You  're  my 
wife ! 


312  Maternity  Act  II 

LUCIE.  I  won't  be  your  wife  any  more.  I  won't  have 
any  more  children. 

BRIGNAC.    Pray  why? 

LUCIE.    Didn't  Dr.  Hourtin  tell  you  anything? 

BRIGNAC.  Yes.  All  right.  I  '11  do  what  he  said. 
There,  does  that  content  you?  Come  to  bed. 

LUCIE.    No. 

BRIGNAC.  You  have  n't  looked  at  my  roses.  Come, 
is  n't  he  a  loving  husband,  your  little  Julien  ? 

LUCIE.    Leave  me  alone.     You  're  drunk. 

BRIGNAC.  You  know  I  'm  not.  Come  and  give  me  a 
kiss! 

LUCIE.     You  stink  of  alcohol.     Let  me  go ! 

BRIGNAC  [low]     I  want  you.     [He  kisses  her]. 

LUCIE  [tearing  herself  away]  Faugh!  [She  wipes 
her  mouth  furiously],  % 

BRIGNAC.  Enough  of  that,  do  you  hear?  [He  seizes 
her  brutally].  That's  enough! 

LUCIE.     You  hurt  me !     Let  me  go ! 

BRIGNAC.  Be  kind  now.  How  well  you  look  when 
your  temper  's  up !  Pretty  pet !  Must  n't  be  naughty  ! 
Come ! 

LUCIE.     I  won't ! 

BRIGNAC.  Then  I  '11  make  you!  [They  struggle,  with 
low  cries,  panting], 

LUCIE  [at  the  end  of  her  strength]     I  can't !     I  can't ! 

He  puts  her  on  a  chair;  then  goes  to  open  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  and  turns  on  the  electric  light.  The 
bed  is  seen,  a  vision  of  white  sheets.  Brignac  comes  to 
his  wife, 

LUCIE  [mad  with  terror]  The  cave  man!  The  cave 
man ! 

He  seizes  her.  She  gives  a  cry  and  faints.  He 
carries  her  towards  the  bedroom. 


ACT    III 

The  Cour  d'Assises.  Only  two  of  the  four  sides  of 
the  hall  are  visible.  The  footlights  nearly  correspond 
with  a  line  drawn  diagonally  across  it.  To  the  left  and 
in  front  is  the  seat  of  the  Ministry  of  State.  Further 
back,  to  the  left,  the  Court. 

Facing  the  audience,  successively,  are  seated  counsel, 
above  them  the  defendants,  and,  lastly,  the  gendarmes. 
In  the  middle,  in  front  of  a  table  placed  for  exhibits  in 
the  case,  the  witness  stand. 

To  the  right  three  or  four  benches  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  audience,  but  only  a  small  part  is  visible. 
The  jury,  which  is  unseen,  is  supposed  to  occupy  the 
place  of  the  prompter's  box. 

There  are  present  the  Advocate  General,  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  Court  and  his  assessors,  counsel  for  the  de- 
fence and  his  learned  friends.  In  the  dock  are  Madame 
Thomas,  Marie  Gaubert,  Tupin (Catherine's  husband), 
Lucie,  guarded  by  gendarmes.  Among  the  public,  Ma- 
dame d'Amergueux,  Brignac,  the  clerk. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Madame  Thomas  is  stand- 
ing in  the  dock. 

PRESIDENT  [authoritatively,  to  counsel  for  the  de- 
fence] Maitre  Verdier,  this  is  not  the  moment  for  you 
to  address  the  Court.  And  I  take  this  occasion  to  warn 
you:  I  tell  you  plainly  I  will  use  all  the  authority  in 
my  power  to  prevent  you  from  attempting  to  set  up 
a  theory  of  justification,  as  I  see  you  are  about  to  do, 
for  the  crimes  with  which  the  defendants  are  charged. 

313 


314  Maternity  Act  III 

COUNSEL  FOR  THE  DEFENCE.  You  are  mistaken,  Presi- 
dent. I  have  no  intention  of  the  sort.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  declare*  publicly  that  in  my  eyes  abortion  is  a 
crime  because  it  destroys  the  existence  of  a  creature 
virtually  in  being.  To  allow  it  would  infallibly  lead 
to  allowing  infanticide.  But  what  I  shall  try  to  show 
is  that  by  not  permitting  affiliation,  and  by  not  respect- 
ing all  motherhood,  however  it  is  caused,  Society  has 
lost  the  right  to  condemn  a  crime  rendered  excusable 
by  the  hypocrisy  of  its  morals  and  the  indifference  of  the 
law. 

PRESIDENT.  This  is  not  the  moment  for  your  speech. 
The  defendant  Thomas :  we  shall  now  pass  to  the  second 
part  of  your  examination.  [He  hunts  in  his  notes,  says 
a  word  or  two  in  an  undertone  to  the  assessor  on  his 
right,  then  to  Madame  Thomas]  So  you  admit  the 
abominable  crimes  with  which  you  are  charged? 

MME.  THOMAS.  I  must  admit  them,  as  you  have  the 
proofs. 

PRESIDENT.  And  you  feel  no  remorse  for  the  lives 
of  human  beings  you  have  destroyed  from  the  sole 
motive  of  gain?  The  jury  will  appreciate  your  attitude. 

COUNSEL.  Except  that  you  have  spared  them  the 
trouble ! 

PRESIDENT.  Maitre  Verdier,  I  cannot  hear  you  now. 
[To  Madame  Thomas]  You  have  crippled  the  work  of 
nature,  you  have  offended  against  the  principle  of  life, 
and  you  never  said  to  yourself  that  among  the  beings 
you  stifled  before  their  birth  might  be  one  destined  to 
benefit  humanity  by  his  greatness  !  Did  you  ?  Well  ? 

MME.  THOMAS.     No. 

PRESIDENT.     You  did  not  say  so!     Very  well. 

MME.  THOMAS.  If  I  had  thought  about  that,  I  should 
have  perhaps  said  that  there  was  as  much  chance  — 
more,  perhaps  —  that  he  might  be  a  thief  or  a  murderer. 

PRESIDENT.    Indeed!    I  will  not  argue  with  you;  I  am 


Act  III  Maternity  315 

not  going  to  give  you  the  chance  to  expound  your 
criminal  ideas  here. 

MME.  THOMAS.     My  counsel  will  do  it  better  than  me. 

PRESIDENT.    We  '11  see  about  that. 

COUNSEL  [with  a  smile]  It  might,  perhaps,  be  well 
for  you,  President,  not  to  contemn  in  advance  the  rights 
of  the  defence. 

PRESIDENT  [irritated]  Maitre  Verdier,  you  have  no 
right  to  address  me!  And  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
moderate  your  expressions.  I  regret  to  say  that  from 
the  opening  of  this  case  you  have  adopted  an  attitude 
that  you  can,  perhaps,  carry  off  at  Paris,  but  that  I  shall 
certainly  not  countenance  here.  Pray  take  notice  of 
that. 

COUNSEL.   At  the  Paris  bar  — 

PRESIDENT.    I  cannot  hear  you  now. 

COUNSEL.    At  the  Paris  — 

PRESIDENT.  I  cannot  hear  you  now!  Kindly  be 
seated. 

MME.  D'AMERGUEUX  [among  the  public,  to  her  neigh- 
bor, M.  de  Forgeau]  What  an  excellent  judge  M.  Calvon 
is.  He  is  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow :  I  shall  congratulate 
him. 

M.  DE  FORGEAU.    A  judge  of  the  old  stamp. 

MME.  D'AMERGUEUX.  He  recognizes  us.  Did  you  see 
him  give  a  little  nod?  [She  directs  her  smiles  at  the 
President]. 

M.  DE  FORGEAU.     Yes.     Hush! 

PRESIDENT.  Marie  Gaubert,  stand  up.  [A  thin  little 
woman  rises  to  her  feet].  Your  name  is  Marie  Gaubert? 
How  old  are  you? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.     Twenty-seven. 

PRESIDENT.    Profession? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.    Schoolmistress. 

PRESIDENT.  Do  you  admit  the  facts  with  which  you 
are  charged. 


316  Maternity  Act  III 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.    Yes. 

PRESIDENT.     What  have  you  to  say  in  your  defence? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.    I  did  n't  think  I  was  doing  wrong. 

PRESIDENT.  Your  levity  astounds  me.  You  are  a 
schoolmistress,  and  you  do  not  understand  that  the 
sacred  mission  entrusted  to  you  of  preparing  men  and 
women  for  the  glory  and  responsibility  of  the  future 
entails  on  you  the  duty  of  giving  an  example  yourself ! 
It  is  your  business  to  conduct  the  course  of  elementary 
instruction  in  civic  morality,  and  this  is  how  you  prac- 
tise it !  Have  you  nothing  to  answer  ?  According  to  my 
notes  you  undertook  the  nursing  of  your  two  children 
yourself.  Do  you  love  them? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.     It  was  just  because  I  loved  them. 

PRESIDENT.  But  you  decided  that  two  were  enough. 
You  made  up  your  mind  to  limit  the  work  of  the 
Almighty. 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  I  should  have  asked  nothing  better 
than  to  have  four  or  five  children. 

PRESIDENT.  Indeed !  Then  let  me  tell  you  that  you 
did  not  take  the  best  means  to  arrive  at  that  result. 
[He  laughs  and  looks  at  his  assessor  on  the  right,  then  at 
Madame  d'Amergueux.  She  signals  her  congratulations 
to  him], 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  You  have  to  be  able  to  feed  your 
children. 

PRESIDENT.  Ah,  there !  No !  At  a  pinch  I  could 
understand  that  excuse  —  a  very  bad  one  —  being  em- 
ployed in  the  case  of  other  women ;  but  not  in  yours,  who 
enjoy  the  incomparable  advantage  of  being  protected  by 
the  State.  You  are  never  out  of  work. 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  I  earn  eighty-three  francs  a  month. 
My  husband,  who  is  a  teacher,  too,  gets  as  much.  That 
makes  a  hundred  and  sixty-six  francs  a  month  to  live  on 
and  bring  up  two  children.  When  there  were  four  of  us, 
we  could  almost  do  it;  with  five  it  would  have  been 
impossible,, 


Act  III  Maternity  317 

PRESIDENT.  You  omit  to  say  that  during  your  confine- 
ment you  have  the  right  to  a  month's  leave  with  full 
salary. 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  That  used  to  be  true,  President. 
It  is  so  no  longer.  A  department  circular  of  1900  in- 
formed us  that  the  funds  were  insufficient  for  more  than 
half  salaries  to  be  paid,  as  a  rule,  at  such  times.  To 
obtain  the  whole  salary,  a  detailed  report  from  the  in- 
spector is  required,  and  you  must  petition  for  it. 

PRESIDENT.     Then  why  not  petition? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  It 's  hard  to  seem  like  a  beggar 
simply  because  you  have  feelings. 

PRESIDENT.     Proud,  are  you? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.    There  's  no  law  against  that. 

PRESIDENT.  So  that  is  why  you  went  to  the  defendant 
Thomas  ? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  Yes,  sir.  My  husband  and  I  ar- 
ranged our  little  finances  so:  the  evening  our  salaries 
were  paid  we  used  to  divide  the  money  into  different 
parts  and  put  them  by;  so  much  for  rent,  so  much  for 
food,  so  much  for  clothing.  We  just  managed  to  get 
along  by  calculating  carefully,  and  more  than  once  hav- 
ing to  cut  down  expenses  that  seemed  inevitable.  The 
prospect  of  a  third  child  upset  everything.  It  made  our 
existence  impossible.  We  should  have  all  gone  hungry. 
And  then  the  inspectors  and  the  head  mistresses  don't 
like  you  to  have  many  children,  especially  if  you  nurse 
them  yourself.  The  last  time  I  was  nursing  I  was  made 
to  hide  myself  —  I  only  had  ten  minutes  during  the 
break  at  ten  o'clock  and  again  at  two;  and  when  my 
mother  brought  the  baby,  I  had  to  take  him  into  a  dark 
closet. 

PRESIDENT.    That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

COUNSEL.  Yes,  President,  it  has.  It  ought  to  be 
known  how  the  State,  which  preaches  the  increase  of  the 
population,  treats  its  servants  when  they  have  children. 


818  Maternity  Act  III 

PRESIDENT  [furiously]  I  can't  hear  you  now!  [To 
the  schoolmistress]  You  haven't  anything  more  to  say? 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.    No,  sir. 

PRESIDENT.    Sit  down. 

MME.  D'AMERGUEUX.  I  think  M.  Calvon  lets  their 
counsel  talk  too  much. 

M.  DE  FORGE AU.    He  's  rather  afraid  of  him. 

PRESIDENT.    Tupin,  stand  up. 

TUPIN  [a  man  of  mean  and  wretched  appearance] 
After  you,  Calvon. 

PRESIDENT.     What 's  that? 

TUPIN.  I  said,  "  After  you,  Calvon."  That 's  your 
name,  is  n't  it  ? 

PRESIDENT.  I  warn  you  I  shall  not  stand  the  least 
insolence  from  you. 

TUPIN.  I  said,  "  After  you,  Calvon,"  just  as  you  said, 
"  Stand  up,  Tupin."  If  that 's  insolence,  I  did  n't 
begin  it. 

PRESIDENT.     I  will  have  you  removed.    Stand  up. 

TUPIN.    All  right.    It  '11  let  me  stretch  my  legs  a  bit. 

PRESIDENT.     Your  profession? 

TUPIN.    Electrician. 

PRESIDENT.  You  were  once.  It '  a  long  time  since 
you  worked  regularly. 

TUPIN.     There  's  no  work  to  be  had. 

PRESIDENT.  Because  you  look  for  it  at  the  wineshop. 
The  police  give  the  worst  account  of  you. 

TUPIN.  I  'm  not  surprised  they  don't  like  me :  I  never 
liked  them.  [Laughter], 

PRESIDENT.  Silence  there,  or  I  shall  have  the  court 
cleared.  [To  Tupin]  The  name  of  your  wife  has  been 
found  among  the  papers  of  the  defendant  Thomas. 
Catherine  Tupin,  maiden  name  Bidois.  Where  is  Cath- 
erine Tupin?  Stand  up.  Very  well,  sit  down  again. 
[To  Tupin]  You  tried  to  conceal  your  wife  from  the 
police. 


Act  III  Maternity  319 

TUPIN.  I  did  n't  think  they  were  good  company  for 
her. 

PRESIDENT  [pretending  not  to  hear]  You  then  gave 
yourself  up  on  your  own  confession  that  it  was  you  who 
took  her  to  this  abominable  woman's  house. 

Tupitf.    You  speak  like  a  book. 

PRESIDENT.  You  persisted  in  the  confession  of  your 
guilt.  Did  you  want  to  go  to  prison? 

TUPIN.  Why,  that 's  an  idea !  You  get  fed  and  shel- 
tered there,  anyway. 

PRESIDENT.  The  prison  conditions  are  certainly  better 
than  those  you  are  accustomed  to. 

TUPIN.     Now  you  're  talking. 

PRESIDENT.  When  you  were  arrested  you  were  com- 
pletely destitute.  The  remains  of  your  furniture  had 
been  sold,  and  you  were  on  the  eve  of  finding  yourself 
without  a  roof  over  your  head.  Doubtless  you  will 
blame  Society,  too.  Your  insubordinate  character  leads 
you  to  frequent  Socialist  clubs ;  and  when  you  do  not 
affect,  as  you  do  now,  a  cynical  carelessness  in  your 
speech,  you  are  used  to  repeat  the  empty  phrases  you 
have  learnt  from  the  propagandist  pamphlets  that  poison 
the  minds  of  the  working  classes.  But  we  know  you. 
If  you  are  a  victim,  it  is  to  your  own  vices.  You  are  a 
hardened  drinker. 

TUPIN.    Lately,  that 's  true. 

PRESIDENT.    You  admit  it.    Extraordinary ! 

TUPIN.    What 's  that  prove  ? 

PRESIDENT.  Your  eldest  daughter  is  known  to  the 
police  of  Paris  as  a  prostitute.  One  of  your  sons  has 
been  sentenced  to  a  year's  imprisonment  for  theft.  Is 
that  true? 

TUPIN.    Possibly. 

PRESIDENT.  A  little  less  proud  now?  That's  right. 
Well,  now,  you  took  your  wife  to  this  woman.  Why? 

TupiN1.  Because  I  thought  it  was  enough  to  have 
brought  seven  wretched  creatures  into  the  world. 


320  Maternity  Act  III 

PRESIDENT.  If  you  had  continued  to  be  the  honest 
and  industrious  workman  you  were  once,  you  might  have 
had  another  child  without  its  necessarily  growing  up 
wretched. 

TUPIN.    No,  sir.    Not  with  five.      It's  impossible. 

PRESIDENT.     I  don't  understand. 

TUPIN.  I  say  that  a  working  man's  family,  however 
much  they  work  and  economize,  can't  support  itself  when 
there  are  five  children. 

PRESIDENT.  If  that  is  true,  there  are  —  and  it  is  to 
the  credit  of  the  Society  that  you  despise  —  there  are,  I 
say,  numerous  charitable  organizations  which  are,  so  to 
speak,  on  the  watch  for  the  victims  of  misfortune  and 
make  it  a  point  of  honor  to  leave  none  without  succor. 

TUPIN  [excitedly]  Oh,  and  that  seems  all  right  to 
you,  that  a  working  man,  who  has  n't  any  vice  and  does 
his  duty,  which  is  to  work  and  —  we  're  told,  too  —  have 
plenty  of  children,  it  seems  all  right  to  you  that  that 
should  simply  lead  to  beggary. 

PRESIDENT.  Yes,  yes;  I  recognize  the  wineshop 
orator.  So  you  say  that  a  household  can't  exist  with  five 
children.  Thank  God,  there  is  more  than  one  in  that 
condition  which  goes  neither  to  ask  for  charity  nor  to  an 
abortionist. 

MME.  TUPIN.     You  're  wrong. 

TUPIN.     Shall  I  prove  that  you  're  wrong  ? 

PRESIDENT.  That  does  n't  seem  to  me  to  have  much  to 
do  with  the  case. 

MME.  TUPIN.    Yes,  it  has. 

TUPIN.  Pardon  me.  If  I  prove  it,  people  will  under- 
stand how  I  came  to  do  what  I  did. 

PRESIDENT.     Very  well.     But  be  short. 

TUPIN.  I  've  given  my  counsel  my  accounts  for  a 
month.  Let  him  read  it  to  you. 

PRESIDENT.    Very  well.     [The  counsel  rises']. 

COUNSEL.    Here  it  is. 


Act  III  Maternity  321 

PRESIDENT.     You  are  not  Tupin's  counsel. 

COUNSEL.  No,  President,  but  my  learned  friends 
have  done  me  the  honour  —  for  which  I  thank  them  — 
to  confide  to  me  the  task  of  dealing  in  my  speech  with 
the  case  as  a  whole,  reserving  to  themselves  to  deal  with 
particular  aspects  of  it  as  they  relate  to  their  clients. 

PRESIDENT.  I  will  hear  you  now  solely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  reading  these  accounts.  But  this  is  not  the  time 
for  you  to  address  the  court.  You  understand?  I  will 
hear  the  accounts  and  nothing  more. 

COUNSEL.  Certainly,  President.  [He  reads]  The 
daily  nourishment  of  five  children  consists  of  a  four- 
pound  loaf,  soup  of  vegetables  and  dripping,  and  a 
stew  which  costs  ninety  centimes.  Total,  3f.  75c.  This 
is  the  expenditure  of  the  father:  Return  ticket  for 
tram,  SOc.  Tobacco,  15c.  Dinner,  If.  25c.  The  rent 
is  300f.  Clothing  for  the  whole  family,  and  boots: 
sixteen  pairs  of  boots  for  the  children  at  4f.  50c.  each, 
four  for  the  parents  at  8f. :  total  again,  SOOf.  Total 
for  the  year:  2,600f.  The  expenditure  then  must  be 
set  down  at  2,600f.  Tupin,  who  is  an  exceptional  work- 
man, earned  160f.  a  month,  that  is  to  say,  2,1  OOf.  a 
year.  There  is  therefore  an  annual  deficit  of  500f.  As 
I  have  promised,  I  will  not  add  a  word.  [He  sits  down], 

MME.  D'AMERGUEUX  [to  her  husband]  He  might  well 
have  saved  the  three  sous  a  day  for  tobacco. 

COUNSEL.  Does  the  Court  wish  to  have  this  paper 
put  in? 

PRESIDENT.  There  is  no  object  in  that.  [To  Tupin] 
I  will  not  quarrel  with  your  figures:  I  accept  them. 
But  I  repeat,  there  are  charitable  institutions. 

TUPIN.    And  I  repeat  that  I  don't  want  to  beg. 

PRESIDENT.  You  prefer  to  commit  what  is  almost 
infanticide.  A  man  whose  daughter  is  on  the  streets 
and  whose  son  is  a  thief  can  accept  charity  without 
degradation. 


322  Maternity  Act  III 

TUPIN  [excited"]  They  were  n't  then.  If  they  Ve 
fallen  to  that,  it 's  because  with  so  many  other  children 
besides,  I  could  n't  look  after  my  son  as  rich  people 
look  after  theirs,  and  because  my  daughter  was  seduced 
and  abandoned  —  because  she  was  hungry !  No,  but 
you  must  have  a  heart  of  stone  to  bring  that  up  against 
me! 

PRESIDENT.  And  it 's  not  your  fault  either  that  you  Ve 
become  a  drunkard? 

TUPIN.  I  '11  tell  you.  You  know  the  proverb: 
"  When  there  's  no  hay  in  the  manger  —  "  Well,  when 
the  pinch  came  at  home,  I  and  my  wife  began  to  quarrel 
over  each  new  baby.  Each  of  us  accused  the  other  of 
having  made  things  worse  for  the  first  ones.  Well  I'll 
cut  it  short.  If  I  went  to  the  wineshop,  why,  it 's 
warm  there,  and  you  don't  hear  the  brats  crying  and  their 
mother  complaining.  And  the  drink  helps  you  to  forget, 
so  it  does,  to  forget! 

MME.  TUPIN.    It 's  good  to  forget,  so  it  is ! 

TUPIN.  It 's  my  fault  if  you  like,  but  that 's  how  we 
got  poorer  and  poorer. 

PRESIDENT.  And  when  you  had  your  last  child,  did  n't 
that  serve  as  a  lesson  to  you? 

TUPIN.    The  last  one  did  n't  cost  anything. 

PRESIDENT  [absently']    Ah! 

TUPIN.  He  came  into  the  world  deformed  and  sickly. 
He  was  conceived  in  misery,  in  want  —  his  mother  was 
worn  out. 

PRESIDENT.    And  his  father  a  drunkard! 

TUPIN.  If  you  like.  Well,  he  came  badly  into  the 
world  —  he  could  never  have  been  anything  but  a  cripple. 
But  he  did  n't  want  for  anything !  They  took  him  in  at 
the  hospital  and  begged  me  to  let  him  stay  there. 

MME.  TUPIN.    He  was  a  curiosity  for  the  doctors. 

TUPIN.  They  looked  after  him,  I  tell  you.  They 
did  n't  leave  him  for  a  minute.  He  was  made  to  live  in 


Act  III  Maternity  323 

spite  of  himself,  so  to  speak.  The  other  children,  who 
were  strong,  they  let  them  perish  of  want.  With  half  the 
care  and  the  money  that  was  spent  on  the  sickly  one 
they  might  have  made  fine  fellows  of  all  the  rest. 

PRESIDENT.  Then  that  is  why  you  made  away  with 
the  next? 

TUPIN.  For  all  the  good  he  'd  have  had  in  the  world, 
if  he  could,  he  'd  say,  thank  you. 

PRESIDENT.    You  ought  not  to  have  had  him. 

TUPIN.  That 's  true.  But  we  poor  folk,  we  don't 
know  the  dodges  rich  people  have  so  as  only  to  have  the 
children  they  want,  and  take  their  fun  all  the  same: 
worse  luck ! 

PRESIDENT.  If  everyone  was  of  your  opinion  our 
country  would  be  in  a  bad  way.  But  your  country,  doubt- 
less, is  nothing  to  you? 

TUPIN.  I  Ve  heard  say:  "A  man's  country  is  where 
he  is  well  off."  I  'm  badly  off  everywhere. 

PRESIDENT.  And  you  are  equally  lost  to  any  interest 
in  humanity. 

TUPIN.  If  humanity  can't  get  on  without  a  set  of 
wretches  like  me,  let  it  go  smash ! 

PRESIDENT.  Well,  the  jury  can  estimate  your  sense  of 
morality.  You  may  sit  down. 

Night  has  come.     The  ushers  bring  lamps. 

MME.  D'AMERGUEUX.  I  should  n't  like  to  meet  that 
man  of  an  evening  in  a  lonely  place. 

M.  DE  FORGEAU.  Nor  I.  Now  for  Madame  Brignac 
—  that  was.  My  dear  lady,  what  a  dreadful  thing ! 

MME.  D'  AMERGUEUX.    Dreadful ! 

PRESIDENT.  We  have  now  only  to  examine  the  facts 
concerning  Lucie  and  Annette  Jarras.  [To  the  defend- 
ant Thomas]  Stand  up !  This  girl,  Annette  Jarras,  was 
your  victim.  What  have  you  to  say? 

MME.  THOMAS.    Nothing. 

PRESIDENT.  You  don't  trouble  yourself  about  it? 
Well,  we  know  your  heart  is  not  easy  to  move. 


324  Maternity  Act  III 

MME.  THOMAS.  If  I  told  you  that  I  was  led  to  do 
what  I  did  by  pity,  you  would  n't  believe  me. 

PRESIDENT.  Probably  not.  But  you  can  try  to  make 
us  believe.  The  defendant  has  the  right  to  say  whatever 
he  thinks  fit  —  always  under  the  control  of  the  court,  of 
course. 

MME.  THOMAS.    It 's  not  worth  while. 

PRESIDENT.  Yes,  yes;  goon.  The  jury  is  listening  to 
you. 

MME.  THOMAS  [on  a  sign  from  her  counsel]  A  girl 
came  to  me  one  day.  She  was  a  servant.  Her  master 
had  had  her.  I  refused  to  do  what  she  asked  me:  she 
went  away  and  threw  herself  into  the  water.  Another, 
whom  I  would  n't  help,  was  tried  here  for  infanticide. 
So,  since  then,  when  others  have  come  to  me,  I  have 
agreed;  I  have  prevented  more  than  one  suicide  and 
more  than  one  crime. 

PRESIDENT.  So  it  was  from  pity,  out  of  charity  that 
you  acted.  The  prosecution  will  reply  that  you  never 
forgot  to  exact  heavy  payment. 

MME.  THOMAS.  And  you,  are  n't  you  paid  for  con- 
demning others  ? 

PRESIDENT.  Those  whom  you  condemned  to  death  and 
executed  yourself,  were  innocent. 

MME.  THOMAS.  You  prosecute  me;  but  the  surgeons 
who  guarantee  sterility  get  decorated ! 

PRESIDENT.  You  forget  this  young  girl  who  died  as 
the  result  of  your  action,  Annette  Jarras.  She  was 
eighteen,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  health;  now  she  is  in 
the  grave.  [Lucie  breaks  into  sobs]  Look  at  her  sister 
by  your  side;  listen  to  her  crying.  Ask  her  now  if  she 
does  not  curse  you. 

MME.  THOMAS.   She  would  bless  me  if  I  had  succeeded. 

PRESIDENT  [to  Lucie]  Defendant  Lucie  Jarras,  stand 
up! 

M.  DE  FORGEAU  [to  his  neighbour]  Brignac  must  think 
himself  lucky  to  have  got  his  divorce. 


Act  III  Maternity  325 

MME.  D'AMERGUEUX.  Speak  lower;  he's  behind  us. 
I  am  against  divorce,  but  in  this  case  — 

PRESIDENT.  You  have  heard  the  defendant  Thomas. 
What  have  you  to  say? 

LUCIE  [through  her  sobs]  Nothing.  Nothing.  [She 
sinks  back  upon  her  bench"]. 

PRESIDENT.    Do  you  admit  — 

LUCIE.  Yes,  yes;  I  admit  everything.  I  've  told  you 
so  already. 

PRESIDENT.  You  did  not  want  your  child  to  come  into 
the  world? 

LUCIE.     I  did  n't  want  it  to. 

PRESIDENT.     Why? 

LUCIE.  Out  of  pity  for  him.  I  knew  what  sort  of  a 
life  he  would  have,  and  I  risked  my  own  to  save  him  from 
it.  I  acted  like  a  good  mother. 

PRESIDENT.  What  you  say  is  simply  monstrous.  [Si- 
lence]. You,  now,  have  not  the  excuse  of  poverty.  Your 
child  would  net  have  suffered  from  want. 

LUCIE.  He  would  have  suffered  from  disease,  and  that 
is  as  bad  as  want. 

PRESIDENT.    No  theories,  please.    Only  facts. 

LUCIE.  Yes;  facts,  nothing  but  facts.  You  can  see 
the  theory  of  it  yourself.  I  had  two  children,  two  little 
girls.  One  is  a  deaf  mute,  the  other  had  convulsions. 
She  is  dead  now.  The  doctors  told  me  that  that  was  due 
to  the  alcoholized  condition  of  my  husband,  whose  father 
had  been  in  the  same  state. 

PRESIDENT.     Most  unfortunate. 

LUCIE.    Be  pleased  to  let  me  speak ! 

PRESIDENT.    Very  good.     I  will  answer  you. 

LUCIE.     One  of  the  doctors  is  famous  —  Dr.  Hourtin. 

PRESIDENT.  A  specialist  who  sees  alcoholism  every- 
where ! 

LUCIE  [more  vigorously]  Those  doctors  told  me  that 
if  my  husband  did  not  change  his  mode  of  life,  any 


326  Maternity  Act  III 

further  children  I  had  by  him  would,  perhaps,  be  worse 
than  the  first,  nervous  degenerates.  The  very  evening 
that  Professor  Hourtin  came  to  see  me,  my  husband  came 
back  from  some  festivity  in  a  state  of  excitement  —  [She 
stops]. 

PRESIDENT.    Well?     Is  that  all? 

LUCIE.  No;  I  '11  have  the  courage  to  say  everything. 
I  have  nothing  to  lose  now. 

PRESIDENT.  Please  take  note  that  it  is  not  I  who  make 
you  go  on. 

LUCIE.  No ;  you  would  probably  prefer  if  I  did  n't. 
[Controlling  her  voice]  During  the  day  something  had 
happened  —  something  serious  —  that  revealed  to  me  all 
the  hideousness  of  his  moral  character.  I  determined  no 
longer  to  be  his  wife.  He  came  in,  gay  with  drinking. 
In  spite  of  my  prayers  and  resistance,  my  cries  of  hatred 
and  disgust,  he  chose  that  evening  to  exercise  his  rights 
—  his  rights  !  He  took  me  by  force ;  he  outraged  me. 

PRESIDENT.    He  was  your  husband? 

LUCIE.    Yes. 

PRESIDENT.     Then  — 

LUCIE.    Of  course.    The  next  morning  I  left  his  house. 

PRESIDENT  [starting']     M.  Brignac  is  not  in  question. 

LUCIE.     I  bring  him  in  question ! 

PRESIDENT.  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  bring  charges 
against  persons  unconnected  with  the  case. 

LUCIE.     He  ought  to  be  in  my  place. 

PRESIDENT.  His  name  does  not  figure  in  the  in- 
dictment. 

LUCIE.  Because  your  justice  does  n't  want  to  put 
responsibility  on  the  right  shoulders ! 

PRESIDENT.  I  forbid  you  to  speak  like  that  of  M. 
Brignac. 

COUNSEL.     Pardon  me,  President. 

PRESIDENT.     I  cannot  hear  you  now. 

COUNSEL.     That  is  why  I  ask  to  be  heard. 


Act  III  Maternity  327 

PRESIDENT.     What  do  you  want? 

COUNSEL.     M.  Brignac  is  called  as  a  witness. 

PRESIDENT.    We  have  already  heard  him. 

COUNSEL.  Allow  me  to  remind  you  of  the  terms  of 
Article  319  of  the  Criminal  Code,  which  authorizes  me 
to  say  against  him  as  well  as  against  his  evidence  what- 
ever may  help  the  defence. 

PRESIDENT.  And  let  me  remind  you  of  Article  311 
in  the  same  Code,  which  enjoins  you  to  express  yourself 
with  moderation. 

COUNSEL.  I  ask  you,  President,  kindly  to  recall  M. 
Brignac  to  the  bar.  I  have  a  question  to  put  to  him 
through  you. 

PRESIDENT  [after  consulting  with  his  assessors] 
Usher,  ask  M.  Brignac  kindly  to  come  here. 

BRIGNAC  [coming  forward  to  the  bar]  Here,  Presi- 
dent. 

PRESIDENT.     What  is  your  question,  Maitre  Verdier? 

COUNSEL.  M.  Brignac  has  heard  all  that  has  just 
been  said? 

BRIGNAC.     Yes. 

COUNSEL.  Then  I  beg  M.  Brignac  to  review  all  the 
factors  in  his  memory.  I  make  a  supreme  appeal  to  his 
conscience,  and  I  beg  you,  President,  to  put  this  ques- 
tion to  M.  Brignac:  does  M.  Brignac  not  recognize  him- 
self as  morally  responsible  for  the  crime  imputed  to 
Madame  Lucie  Jarras,  his  divorced  wife? 

PRESIDENT.  I  shall  not  put  the  Question.  Is  that 
all? 

COUNSEL.     For  the  moment,  yes. 

PRESIDENT  [to  Brignac]  You  may  return  to  your 
place,  Deputy.  But  since  the  defence,  with  an  assump- 
tion of  excessive  liberty,  appears  desirous  of  incrimi- 
nating you,  the  Court  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to 
express  to  you  here  the  high  esteem  in  which  it  per- 
sonally holds  you.  [He  half  rises  from  his  chair,  bow- 
ing to  Brignac]. 


828  Maternity  Act  III 

BRIGNAC.  I  thank  you,  President.  [He  goes  back 
to  his  place], 

MME.  D'  AMERGUEUX  [to  her  neighbour]  Then  it 's 
true  what  they  say,  that  Brignac  is  to  be  Minister  of 
Justice  in  the  next  Government? 

PRESIDENT  [to  Lucie]  Defendant  Jarras,  have  you 
finished  ? 

LUCIE.     No,   President. 

PRESIDENT  [with  a  gesture  of  weariness]  Go  on, 
then;  I  'm  listening. 

LUCIE.  When  I  felt  a  child  coming  to  life  within  me 
of  a  man  who  was  nothing  more  to  me,  whose  name 
even  I  no  longer  bore,  and  whom  I  hated  with  my  whole 
soul,  I  prevented  it  from  being  born  to  a  destiny  of 
misery.  I  consider  that  I  had  the  right  to  refuse  the 
task  of  motherhood  when  it  was  forced  on  me  against 
my  will. 

PRESIDENT.  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  justify  an  act 
which  is  a  crime  by  law. 

LUCIE.  I  have  nothing  on  my  conscience  to  reproach 
myself  with. 

PRESIDENT.  Then  you  have  a  singularly  indulgent 
conscience.  All  this  comes  from  your  pride.  If  you 
had  not  entered  into  a  struggle  with  your  husband,  you 
would  still  bear  a  respected  name  and  you  would  not 
be  there. 

LUCIE.  I  knew  that  any  child  of  his  would  be  a  de- 
generate. Had  I  not  the  right  to  refuse? 

PRESIDENT.     No. 

LUCIE.  I  loved  him  no  longer.  Had  I  not  the  right 
to  refuse? 

PRESIDENT.     No. 

LUCIE.  Well,  then,  have  the  courage  to  say  that 
woman  in  the  marriage  of  to-day  is  a  slave  whom  man 
can  reduce  to  be  the  instrument  of  his  pleasure !  Just 
as  he  likes  he  can  leave  her  sterile  or  give  her  children 


Act  III  Maternity  329 

—  imperil  her  happiness,  her  life,  or  her  health,  and 
pledge  her  whole  future  without  having  to  render  more 
account  to  her  than  a  bull  who  is  put  to  a  cow!  If 
that 's  it,  very  well !  But  say  so !  At  least,  let  innocent 
girls  know  the  shameful  bargain  that  men  offer  them, 
with  love  for  a  bait  and  the  law  for  a  trap ! 

PRESIDENT  [coldly]  You  were  the  cause  of  your 
young  sister's  death.  You  took  her  with  you. 

LUCIE    [calmer]      Yes.      [She  stops]. 

PRESIDENT.     Well? 

LUCIE.  Our  money  was  soon  spent.  Annette  got 
some  music  lessons  to  give,  but  they  sent  her  away 
when  they  found  out  her  condition.  I  did  sewing. 

PRESIDENT.      Then   you    earned    some   money. 

LUCIE.  I  could  not  get  work  every  day.  When  I 
did,  I  earned  fifteen  sous  for  twelve  hours.  It 's  true 
I  was  not  clever;  there  are  women  who  earn  one  franc 
twenty-five.  We  were  seized  by  despair  at  the  thought 
of  the  child  that  was  coming. 

PRESIDENT.  That  was  not  a  reason  to  take  your  sis- 
ter and  her  child  to  their  deaths.  [Lucie  is  seized  by  a 
nervous  shudder  and  does  not  answer]  Answer  me. 

COUNSEL.     Let  her  take  a  minute,  President. 

LUCIE  [pulling  herself  together]  I  wanted  to  get 
her  into  a  hospital,  but  they  only  take  you  in  at  the 
end  of  pregnancy.  At  Paris  there  are  institutions,  it 
seems,  but  not  in  the  provinces. 

PRESIDENT.     You  might  have  asked  for  relief. 

LUCIE.  We  had  not  been  the  requisite  six  months  in 
the  town.  And  afterwards,  what  could  we  have  done 
with  the  child? 

PRESIDENT.  If  she  was  unable  to  bring  it  up,  your 
sister  could  have  taken  it  to  the  "  Enfants  Assistes." 

LUCIE.  Yes,  abandoned  it.  We  did  think  of  that. 
We  made  inquiries. 

COUNSEL.    A  certificate  is  required  that  the  applicant 


330  Maternity  Act  III 

to  the  society  is  without  means.  An  inquiry  is  made  and 
the  application  may  be  accepted  or  refused.  In  the 
meantime  the  child  may  die. 

LUCIE.  They  only  take  in  children  on  condition  that 
the  mother  shall  not  know  where  the  child  is,  that 
she  shall  never  see  it  or  have  news  of  it.  Once  a 
month  only  she  is  told  if  it  is  alive  or  dead;  nothing 
more. 

PRESIDENT.    Go  on,  madam.    But  facts,  if  you  please. 

LUCIE.  Yes.  I  begged  my  husband  to  take  Annette 
and  me  back.  He  would  not. 

PRESIDENT.     Kindly  come  to  the  defendant  Thomas. 

LUCIE  [with  constantly  rising  emotion]  Annette  re- 
proached herself  for  having  accepted  what  she  called 
my  sacrifice.  She  said  that  she  was  the  cause  of  all  my 
trouble.  [Pause]  One  day  I  was  fetched;  I  found 
her  dead  at  this  woman's.  [A  fit  of  sobbing  seizes  her: 
her  nerves  break  down  completely.  She  cries]  My 
little  sister !  my  poor  little  sister ! 

PRESIDENT  [Compassionately,  to  the  usher]  Take 
her  away.  Call  the  doctor.  [Lucie,  still  crying  out,  is 
led  away.  Her  emotion  has  communicated  itself  to 
everyone  in  court.  The  President  continues  to  the  de- 
fendants] Has  no  one  else  among  you  anything  further 
to  say  in  his  defence? 

TUPIN  [excited]  Oh,  if  we  said  everything  we 
should  be  here  till  to-morrow ! 

MME.  TUPIN  [equally  excited]  Yes,  till  to-morrow, 
so  we  should ! 

TUPIN.  And  then  we  should  n't  be  done,  I  can  tell 
you! 

PRESIDENT.     Then  I  will  hear  the  Advocate-General. 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.  But  you  're  not  going  to  condemn 
us  ?  It  is  n't  possible.  I  have  n't  said  everything  — 

TUPIN.     It 's  not  we  who  are  guilty ! 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.      I    was    afraid    of    getting    a    bad 


Act  III  Maternity  331 

name.     We    hadn't    the    means,    either,    to    bring    up 
another. 

MME.  TUPIN  [greatly  worked  up]  So  that's  it! 
So  that 's  all  the  children  that  we  bring  up  get  by  it ! 
What 's  the  use  of  talking  ?  The  men  have  n't  thought 
of  changing  it  —  well  then,  we  must  do  it!  We  wo- 
men! We  must  strike!  We  —  the  mothers!  The  great 
strike  —  the  strike  of  the  mothers  ! 

Cries   among   the   public,  "  Yes,   yes." 

PRESIDENT.     Silence ! 

MME.  TUPIN.  What 's  the  good  of  using  ourselves 
up  to  make  more  wretched  men  and  gay  women !  For 
others  to  use! 

TUPIN.     It 's  not  that  we  are  guilty ! 

PRESIDENT.      Sit   down ! 

TUPIN  [drowning  his  voice]  It 's  the  men  who  've  not 
given  us  enough  to  feed  our  children  that  are  guilty ! 

PRESIDENT.     Sit  down ! 

TUPIN.  The  men  who  tell  us  to  have  other  children, 
while  those  we  have  are  rotting  with  hunger ! 

COUNSEL.  The  criminal  is  the  man  who  seduced  little 
Annette ! 

PRESIDENT.     Silence ! 

MME.  THOMAS.  Yes,  where 's  he?  Where's  he? 
You  have  n't  taken  him  up !  Because  he  's  a  man  and 
your  laws  — 

PRESIDENT.     Guards ! 

MME.  THOMAS.    And  your  laws  are  made  by  men! 

PRESIDENT.    Guards ! 

MME.  THOMAS.  And  all  the  men  who  got  with  child 
the  girls  I  delivered,  did  you  prosecute  them? 

During  the  following  an  anger  which  becomes  a  fury 
seizes  the  accused.  They  are  all  on  their  •feet,  except 
the  schoolmistress,  who  continues  to  sob  and  utter  words 
that  no  one  hears.  The  President  is  also  on  his  feet; 
he  tries  vainly  to  restore  silence  by  knocking  on  his  desk 


332  Maternity  Act  III 

with  a  paper-knife,  but  he  cannot  make  himself  heard. 
The  tumult  increases  till  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  the 
voices  of  the  counsel  for  the  defence  and  his  clients 
drowning  those  of  the  President  and  the  Procuror. 

PRESIDENT.     I  will  have  you  removed  to  prison ! 

MME.  THOMAS.  The  fine  gentlemen  who  take  mis- 
tresses !  And  the  young  ones  who  humbug  little  work- 
girls  ! 

PRESIDENT.     I  '11  have  you  removed  to  prison ! 

PROCUROR.  Guards,  can't  you  keep  that  crowd  of 
fanatics  quiet  ? 

COUNSEL.    You  have  no  right  to  insult  the  defendants ! 

TUPIN.     That 's  all  they  've  done  from  the  beginning ! 

PROCUROR.  Make  that  howling  mob  be  quiet!  The 
defendants  have  no  respect  for  the  Court ! 

COUNSEL.  And  you,  Advocate-General,  have  no  re- 
spect for  justice ! 

PROCUROR.  If  their  crime  inspires  you  with  sym- 
pathy, it  only  fills  me  with  indignation. 

COUNSEL.  They  are  right.  They  are  not  guilty.  The 
respect  that  you  lack  — 

PROCUROR.     I  demand  — 

COUNSEL.  The  guilt  is  at  the  door  of  the  morals  that 
brand  the  unmarried  mother. 

THE  PUBLIC.     Bravo! 

PROCUROR.     I  ask  that  counsel  for  the  defence  — 

COUNSEL.  Every  woman  with  child  ought  to  be  re- 
spected in  whatever  circumstances  her  child  has  come 
into  being. 

Applause. 

PRESIDENT.  Maitre  Verdier,  by  virtue  of  Article  43 
of  the  Rules  — 

COUNSEL.  Their  crime  is  not  an  individual,  but  a  social 
crime. 

PROCUROR.     It  is  a  crime  against  nature! 

COUNSEL.  It  is  not  a  crime;  it  is  a  revolt  against 
nature ! 


Act  III  Maternity  333 

PRESIDENT.  Guards,  remove  the  defendants!  [The 
guards  do  not  hear  or  do  not  understand].  Maitre  Ver- 
dier,  if  I  have  to  employ  force  — 

Tumult  in  court. 

COUNSEL  [succeeding  by  the  force  of  his  voice  in 
imposing  a  short  silence]  It  is  a  revolt  against  nature ! 
A  revolt  that  fills  my  heart  with  pity,  at  the  cause  of 
which  all  the  force  of  my  mind  is  roused  to  indignation ! 
Yes ;  I  look  forward  with  eagerness  to  that  hour  of  free- 
dom when  the  storehouse  of  science  shall  give  to  every- 
one the  means,  without  a  restraint  that  is  only  hypocrisy, 
without  the  profanation  of  love,  to  have  none  but  the 
children  he  wants !  That  will  be  indeed  a  victory  over 
nature,  that  cruel  nature  which  sows  with  criminal  pro- 
fusion the  life  that  she  watches  die  with  indifference. 
But  meanwhile  — 

The  tumult  begins  again. 

PRESIDENT.   Guards,  clear,  the  court !  Guards  !  Guards, 
remove  the  defendants!     The  sitting  is  adjourned. 
The  judges  put  on  their  caps  and  rise. 

MME.  THOMAS.  It 's  not  me  who  kills  the  innocents ! 
I  'm  no  murderess  ! 

SCHOOLMISTRESS.     Mercy !     Mercy ! 

MME.  TUPIN.     She  's  no  murderess  ! 

TUPIN.     She  's  right.     She  's  no  murderess  ! 

MME.  THOMAS.  It 's  the  men  that  are  guilty !  The 
men !  All  the  men ! 

The  judges  leave  by  the  narrow  door  leading  to  their 
room.  During  the  last  words  their  red  robes  are  seen 
gradually  disappearing. 


THE    END 


30*0 


.  UC  SOUTHERN 


